Pocket hairdressing

As you have heard in my previous story: Perfect Hair Dreams I dream of different hair. Not wavy, not brown, not constantly sticking up at the side while it falls flat as a rodent road kill at the back, but long, curly, flowing, glistening tresses in a ravishing shade of red. Or blonde, I’m not picky.

However, a funny thing happened as I was drifting off to sleep last night, I realized that different hair may not be the answer I’m looking for. Sure, if I woke up the next morning with the glorious hair of my dreams, I would, for a few moments be deliriously happy tossing my head back and forth in front of the mirror and yelling “Would you look at my hair!” so that even astronauts on their lunch break at the Space Station would marvel, but after that brief moment I would probably gaze in disbelief at the tangled mess I had just made and realise that I had made a terrible mistake. I may be blonder, curlier and flowing out the door but I would still have no idea what to do with it. Sadly, the brush is but a mallet in my hands.

So, I’ve revised my previous wish (take note fairy Godmother) I wish to have a permanent hairdresser. One who will be with me each morning to attend my terrible tresses and who would preferably fit in a drawer. This pocket sized magician of the hair would pop out each morning,


“Now let’s see Darling, um hum, um hum, yes we can do something with it. I think a little brushed at the front and up at the back. Very n-ice. Maybe some curls. What you think?”
“Thanks so much,” I’d say, “I never would have pinned it up that way.”
“It’s nothing honey, to me you’re like Cher at a ball. Now go have fun.”


And I’d put him right back in the drawer for later until the next time I...


“Hey! I can hear you out there! Are you putting that cream on your hair like I told you.”

“Um ... yes?”
“You know your hair will be flat tomorrow and completely unworkable. It won’t be my fault if you are a ‘poofed’ souffle.”
“Ok, ok I’m putting it on.”
“And you’ll wait twenty minutes before rinsing?”
“Sure.”
“Twenty actual minutes.”
“Come on, I’ve got to go to bed.”
“Twenty, twenty, twentytwentytwenty...”
“Ugh! Yes, yes.”
“Promise?”
“I swear.”
“Good. See you tomorrow, honey!”

On second thought: A silent, pocket hairdresser.