I went to visit my parents at my childhood home this weekend, and my mom has been cleaning things out. She handed me a shopping bag full of old curling irons to take home for my daughters to use. They were ecstatic.
Last night my 13yo curled my 11yo’s hair with one that had a barrel the same circumference as a toothpick just in time for the school Christmas program. Side ponytail. Enough teensy blonde ringlets to obscure the whole head of the girl behind her on the choir risers. You should have seen her when she woke up with that hairstyle this morning. It was a classic “morning after” look that would be hard to replicate or do justice to with words.
Also in the bag was a hairbrush with a plug. “What’s that?” the 13yo asked. “It’s a hairdryer, actually,” I explained. “The hot air comes through the base of all the bristles.”
“Wow. You guys had a lot of ways to get big hair in the 80s.”
Yes, we did, darling. Lots of ways. Most of them involved teasing the hair with a rat-tail comb an then applying aerosol products made of half-shellack, half-beeswax. I miss those times.
Nostalgia. Who knew it could come in an old shopping bag?
On some disconnected level, it kind of reminds me of that line from the Grinch Stole Christmas: “Christmas doesn’t come from a store.”
Okay, I’ll go back to editing my project now. It’s a billionaire/matchmaker story I hope to release next month–in among two or three other books currently plaguing my ability to do any Christmas preparations at all. Books. They’re friend and foe at times. Am I right? Happy reading!
