The Hairdryer

Monday's ordinary thing: the hairdryer.

Mine quit in mid-use this morning, apparently having blown its last. I remember the first time I used a hairdryer. It was my grandmother's, a smooth white machine with a long nozzle. The plastic was different, lighter. I can almost hear the hollow sound it made when placed on the bathroom counter. It would blow air in a flat, directionless way, and it smelled a bit like burnt power cord, and a bit like tired lotion.

I got a hairdryer for my eleventh Christmas. Bright orange, it looked like a fat, runty squirtgun and weighed ten pounds. Those were the years of feathered hair, or, more truthfully, hoped-for feathered hair, that no amount of hair-drying seemed to achieve. It was very cool, though, to blow dry your hair, and so this item was indispensible.

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