Bad Hair Day

My GHDs died yesterday morning. I turned them on and, pfft, nothing. No little blinking light. No heat. Woe. This is a much nicer way to have them die on me than last time, when I was in the middle of using them and they made a popping sound and then a burst of flame spurted from the back. I dropped them to the floor with a scream and they sprayed sparks like a firework, and then it was over. Luckily I wasn’t burned. Even luckier neither was my carpet (I rent see).

I sent the GHDs back today to see if they can be fixed. I am without straighteners. Eeek. Thankfully the flatmates have them too or I would be having lots of ponytail days. It was hard to send them off though, even by registered post, because what if they get lost? And what if they can’t be fixed? Let’s not even go there, because I don’t want to have to fork out £120 right now.

I got lost on the way to the post office. You wouldn’t think that was possible, seeing as I have been before, but I did. I got confused between that and the sorting office and wandered about bewildered for far too long, because that’s the way I roll. Then I called work and said ‘OK, I give. Where’d they move the post office to?’

Found it eventually. I am not slow, no sir.

So, in the name of shaming myself even more, and the thought of how terrifying hair can be without proper care, I give you these:

Yeah, little me rocking the 80s front ponytail look.

The bowl cut. Sheesh. Terrible. This is all the fault of the perm, of which I had several. When I decided to grow it out, it was too much of a pain, so we cut it out. And this was the result. Why yes those would be Ninja Turtle hands in the background. How awesome is my jumper?

And now the perm is left to grow out, as I guess the bowl cut was far too psychologically damaging.

And yet another growy-outy perm.

I blame the perms for what my hair has become, even if they’re not at fault. My hair used to be lovely and shiny and straight and manageable. Now it is poofy and wild and hates humidity with a passion. One drop of moisture and ‘BAM!’ I am Diana Ross. I am Monica from Friends screaming ‘It’s the humidity!’

And so I fear being without my straighteners for too long. God knows where it will lead. Maybe the bowl cut will start to seem like a good idea again…