Yesterday I blew my hair dry for the first time in, I dunno, twenty years, in an attempt to replicate the salontastic look my beloved stylist gave me after my haircut last week. My own attempt was semi-successful, not as fabulous as Stephanie’s handiwork, but not bad. This was a dry run for KidlitCon on Saturday. Next week I’ll be right back to my regular lazy air-dry.
Later in the day I had to make a Target run, and when I came out it was pouring. San Diego saves all its rain for one afternoon a year, I think. This was that afternoon. As I dashed to the car, I could practically feel the frizz reasserting itself strand by strand. Sproing!
Our neighborhood isn’t build for torrential rain. The gutters were miniature rivers. I braced as I forded a temporary creek on my own street, feeling like Pa Ingalls guiding the horses across. As I turned into our driveway, I saw a baseball go sweeping past in the current. Our baseball? I didn’t think so, but it looked like a perfectly good one and seemed a shame to let it wind up in the storm drain. I pulled into the driveway, threw the car into park and jumped out into the rain. The ball was already floating past my neighbor’s house by the time I caught up with it. I leaped over the raging river of the gutter—and splashed down in the street in water an inch past the hem of my jeans. Shoes, soaked. Socks, sodden. Sleek salon hair? Utterly demolished, replaced by a dripping tangle.
That’ll learn me!
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