On Having My Hair Ironed

Well, move over Cher: the Bush Whacker has had her hair ironed! What fun! I went to have the lawn mower thrown at my mop this afternoon. I was starting to look like Cousin It, there, folks--my stylist almost didn't recognize me. I wasn't the whacker of bushes: I was the walking bush. (Not a word!)

Now the dilemma: do I invest in one of those irons for my house? My hair is pretty cool, I must admit--for today. It's called the hair dresser's magic touch. I've just never been femme enough to have that touch or inclined enough to spend hours on my hair, even if I did. The question is: if I did purchase just a contraption, would I be able to use it? And, if I had the capability, would I actually then spend the time to use it? Decisions, decisions. Would this mean I have an inner femme, dying to break free? (For the record, no, my hair is hardly femme-y: you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, my dears.) But is the act of spending long periods of time on one's hair--and by long, I mean more than 7 minutes--a "femme" thing?

This is the exisential dilemma that emerges from ironing one's hair. Beware the hair iron, my friends.