That’s what I get for trying to be girlie.

As I’ve mentioned before, I am not a girlie girl. I was always a kid with scabs on my knees and a perpetual tan. I did go through an unfortunate stage of Girlyism during high school, the 80s big hair fad sucked us all in. (Doggone that Farrah Fawcett anyway.) Other than that foray into the unknown, I’ve basically been immune.

I do OWN a few girlie things, I just don’t USE them. Every once in awhile (mostly when in the throes of a high fever) I’ll purchase a curling iron or brush, use it once, and then stuff it away in a box somewhere. Eventually I get tired of tripping over the thing and give it away.

And then I buy another one.

My latest raging fever purchase involved an expensive combination curling & flat iron. I wasn’t crazy about the price, but I figured it was a multipurpose tool, and all 3 of us girls could use it, so it was a damn fine choice.

Right.

This thing is unlike any other girlie object I’ve ever owned. It heats not in minutes, but in seconds to temps that could smelt iron. Need some solid steel melted down? Wait there, I’ll be right over. This thing could fry the feathers off an evil chicken from 12 yards away–I’m sure of it. 

I can’t. I just can’t.

The problem with not using girlie products is that I tend to forget HOW to use them. Note to self: just because you own something doesn’t mean you know how to use it. Sage advice, because we have a chainsaw and welding gear on the premises. I guess I’m lucky I was only screwing up with girlie stuff.

Yesterday I went to put ONE curl in my hair. One. We had to go somewhere, and I had a stubborn cowlick that refused to behave. I rolled up that hair easy as pie and then…I shivered.

That’s right, I shivered. And in so doing I touched my bare forehead with a thousand degree rod of torture. I heard SSSZZZZZZzzzzz! as flesh burnt off my body. I saw bright white lights. I smelled sulphur and heard an evil cackle from behind the shower curtain. I yelled out loud–not sure what I said, but I’m guessing it was profane–and my kids came running. I ripped that thing (and my hair) out of my head and slammed carefully placed it on my meltable Laminate counter top. The girls eyeballed it with suspicion and vowed never to use the evil thing.

Now there’s money well spent.

Today I have a second degree burn on my forehead. It’s gooey, creepy looking and painful. Anybody want a new curling iron?