volumant pour des cheveux fins

I got my hair cut this weekend. Not a trim, the requisite 1/2 inch one needs to have snipped in order not to appear homeless, but instead a good, blunt cut, shorter in the back and angling downward along my jaw line. This bold move came on the heels of twirling my fingers around my ponytail last week, and having the sneaking suspecion that during the night one of the cats had replaced my hair with hay.

My regular stylist chopped and shaved and angled until there was very little left. Two to three inches of dead, brassy ends fell to the floor, at times with a surprising thunk. And upon completion, I nearly hugged her. Her denial to come live with me to provide daily styling assistance did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm.

A woman must protect her new vanity, so I purchased on her recommendation a 28-dollar conditioner in a tall, noble bottle colored different shades of royal blue. I recognize that the container could be filled with mayonnaise, for all I know, but let's not rid me of all my fun, and given the abundance of French language on its entirety, I think you might agree that likely it is not. I placed the bottle in a special location in the shower, one free of soap scum and the unnecessary crowding of lesser hair and body products, and one in which I could see it in its expensive glory as I passed in and out of the bathroom.

The next shower began well, me full of anticipation and a full bottle of gorgeousness serum. My stylist said I should wash my hair first, so the conditioner could work its imported and very scientific magic while I took care of my common cleansing duties. I did just as she instructed. I held the leggy bottle to eye level and twisted it's lengthy nozzle. It rotated once. Then twice. Then multiple times, all to no avail. The stubborn, beautiful bottle just would not open.

It must be me, I thought. The expensive conditioner bottle was undoubtedly the work of fine craftsmen, and any flaws were clearly in my incapable hands.

I rotated the nozzle the other way. Ten, twelve times. I pulled it upward. I pushed it downward. I pushed it downward and turned, 30 degrees, 45, 180! Nothing. Not even a slight budge. Undeterred, I searched for instructions. None.

I have a master's degree. I can set my VCR clock without needing a Xanax. And like the smile, is it not univeral that lefty is loosey, for Christ's sake?

I summised that a new altitude might do the trick. I hoisted my left foot up onto the tub spigot, and began my now intensified ritual of rotating the nozzle while pushing it, pulling it, and staring it down in its one, mean eye. I was not backing down. After all that money, I sure wasn't going to admit failure and unscrew the whole apparatus either. It was going to work, come hell or high water.

But what came was cold water. In my frenzy I had wasted several minutes of the precious commodity that is winter shower warmth, and now I was being bathed in tepid drops, at best. Defeated, I abandoned the exhaustive effort, favoring instead to save my other 1,999 parts by cleaning them as efficiently as I could. I managed to shave one leg. I can't speak for the condition of the other.

Before leaving the shower and my dignity, I tried one last time. Defeated, I tapped the nozzle, the one last punch of a boxer fighting beyond her class.

And the damn thing popped open.

I simply cannot wait to use it tomorrow.