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Monday, December 22, 2008

Naked Blowtorch

Although I've yet to set fire to my hair, I've called a hair dryer the "blowtorch" for at least two decades.  I've always hated the loud, blasting whine of the hair dryer.  Just bending over to remove it from the cabinet below the sink fills me with dread.  It's this nasty, garrulous dart gun of heat that's need will always annoy me.

You see, I've got bad hair and no hair dryer, hair product of fancy haircut will fix this.  But this isn't an ode or lament to my bad hair.

Eliza's been sick for over a week now so I've taken to blow drying her hair.  After a few days, the hair is too dirty to ignore but my pet peeve against wet hair with nasal congestion has led me back to that lower cabinet in the bathroom in the hope of not sending my daughter to bed with wet hair.  (Oh, the bed head, the horror!)

Well Eliza loves it.  Although she complains that its "too noisy," the York Peppermint Patty sensation of the wind in her hair elicits whirls of giggles.  She crinkles her tiny nose, mouth open and shakes her head side to side.  

Ordinarily I sit her on my lap for her blowout, but tonight, I placed her on the floor naked and sat on the closed toilet seat, aiming the dryer at her head like a gun.  Eliza saw this as an opportunity to enjoy some mobility as I sparked the torch.  Lately, Eliza topless has reminded me of a young Mick Jagger--the moppy hair, the skinny ribs, the grinning, kind of snarly face.  Savoring the moment, as she spun around and offered me the back of her head, I aimed the dryer at her butt, her little legs, her shoulders.  Eliza squealed happily and turned around, cupping her face with her tiny hands and tossing her head back.  Deep knee bends, some hip shaking and wild dance moves accompanied these ten minutes of pure pleasure.  Perhaps this night will foreshadow my daughter's adult life as a video music star (she's got the moves and her love of the hair dryer might lead to a future passion for gusting wind machines).  However, I hope as an adult she wears clothes.  

For tonight, its one tired Mom, one extraordinary girl and hopefully, a forever mental picture of my girl grinding to the roaring blast of the blowtorch like a young rock idol.  At least the next time I bend down for the dryer, I'll have happy associations as opposed to the usual disgust with my pathetic bad hair.

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