Friday, June 12, 2009

Betty's Back


Warning:  Blow drying your hair can be hazardous to your health.  

It happened last week. There I was, happy and healthy in my fluffy blue bathrobe, blow drying my freshly washed and conditioned hair.  Determined to get that all-important lift at the roots, the puff that sets the well-coiffed apart from the common people,  I bent at the waist and and leaned forward with my trusty Ion Shine 1875 with Dual Temperature/Speed Controls and Optional Turbo Function only to feel a sharp, stabbing in my back on the left side. 

It was not a "twinge,"or just a "tweak."  No, it was a "there most certainly must be a knife handle  sticking out of my back because the blade is embedded deep within a muscle"  kind of feeling.   Then along with the pain, came the oh-my-gosh-I'm alone-in-in-my-robe-and-I just-may-die moments.*  I tried to stand up straight, but the knife went deeper into the muscle and started to slide down into left buttock.  I went back to my bent over stance and froze, a human allen wrench.

Now, no one wants to be found dead (or alive) slumped over his or her bathroom sink,  face in the bowl, with wet, flat hair.**  So with great effort,  I managed to turn, and became the amazing walking human allen wrench.  I inched my way over to the side of the bed where I stood for several moments.  Recalling the countless timelines of the evolutionary process I studied as a child in my fully illustrated Time-Life books, I  slowly made my way into the preferred advanced Homo Sapien stance.  However, as swiftly as the Board of Education in Kansas, the pain struck my progress down and it was all I could do to sit on the edge of the bed,  eyes focused upon the floor in pained concentration.  There I sat, like a tragic mime, mouth frozen in an astonished O, as though watching an invisible flower grow out of the carpet--my only audience, the cat who watched the carpet too until she grew bored and walked away.

Tomorrow:  I recover somewhat and go shopping.

*Like it or not, everyone wants to hear about how they found the dead person.  Think Marilyn Monroe, Elvis, Heath Ledger.  While my robe really is a lovely shade of blue, regular readers of Betty know my bathroom sink is not the proper framing device for my dead head.  Anyone recounting how i was found would surely have to throw in details of the less-than-standard condition of the sink (i.e. the blob of caulk, the rusty faucets) thereby taking attention off me and my dramatic demise.  That would never do.  

**Speaking of 'do's, another thing that drove me away from the sink and into at least a seated position was the matter of my bangs and other aspects of my hair.  I can't help it:  I did not want to die with wet hair because the undertaker/embalmer/hairdresser-to-the-dead would not have a blueprint with which to work.  I have not had a picture taken recently and given the complexity of this cut and the texture of my hair, even professionals who have someone who can lift their own skull would have trouble.

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