Blow drying my hair. This actually deserves a full post, if not two.
I love to blow dry my hair. Not to say that anything spectacular ever comes out of it from a styling perspecitive. It’s the sheer act of doing it that brings great joy – satisfaction. I enter a Zen-like state almost. A blow-dryers high, let’s say.
Each day I wake up extremely early to be ready before the kids awake. This is alone time carved out in the “oxygen mask over yourself first” line of thought. At first I am groggy, half alive, in the dark, in bed. Up, I have to get up.
But by the time I am reaching for the blow dryer so much has been accomplished! I have been up, selected clothes, showered, done my array (getting smaller actually) of applied products that promise me youth, sex appeal and no embarrassing moments at the carpool. I am ready to scroll my iPhone Notes, iCal, weather, and zone out as I yes, dry my hair. I always get thirsty just before I do this. Like I always used to get thirsty just before exercise, in anticipation. I get thirsty just before I pray if I know I might be there for a while. A hydration self-preservation method, I suppose. Note to self: I must remember to keep a bottle of water near the sink.
I have the bathroom all to myself most mornings. I stay far away from my husband, Fotis’s wake up point, so that I can have just this. I once mentioned, wouldn’t be nice to have separate bathrooms if he’s building all these homes and we can potentially design anything we want. He looked at me and said that that would be the end of our marriage, defeat. What’s next, separate beds and bedrooms? Why even bother being married? I’d just thought that if I had that private, sacred place to prepare myself, before I present it to the world at large, him say, I would do better – emotionally. But I did not say any of this or try to explain myself. It’s like when I argued that my daughter Clea-Noelle could easily be Noelle Kleopatra, and he said if that were the case, he’d have nothing to do with her baptism, (or life!) What does one do with that? I mean, really. So…
We share. I wake up very early to have the privacy. And life goes on without some bomb going off in our hallway.
Anyway, let me return to the topic of Love. Not my hair, but the blow drying of it. It’s again a sacred time, like prayer, like running, like writing, it’s another pocket I retreat into. For that 5-10 minutes (15-20 even if I am attempting something for a night out), I am blissfully in some other, alternative (better?) world. The world of hair. The front, the back, the top, who cares? I really don’t. But this action, the static dulling noise, the process: the beginning, middle and end – again, much like running for me – I savor all of it.
I do scan the iPhone’s Notes. I do think that hey, it’s 9 degree out there, the kids won’t have rec outside, too cold. But must find their hats and gloves this morning. I think… Nothing. Yes, sometimes I actually think Nothing – what Bliss! I just Do. My. Hair.
For a mom, this is Huge. This is why so many women are off on yoga mats, praying in walk-in closets, sitting in their cars at the parking lot at Stop & Shop, chilling out. Trying to get away, from all the clutter in our own heads. So the act of just silencing it all – for the sake of my hair – is truly, utterly, phenomenal.
I kid you not.
I bless my blow dryer. I just got a new BaByliss Pro TT. (Bliss – these people know me!) Honestly, think about it, it’s called at “Baby” and “Bliss” and the Pro TT stands for Tourmaline Titanium, whatever awesome thing that could possibly stand for.
I bow down to the man who invented it: Alexander F. Godefoy in his salon in France in 1890. (His name has the word God in it.) This little miracle gun of a machine. It’s the only gun I want to have in my home.
I use it every day, sometimes twice if my run is late.
I love it, maybe it loves me.
It could, it’s that awesome.
I’m going down to go say hi to it right now. I think it misses me.