Blow It Out

blow copy

The sweat dripping down her face not shown.

“So, do you live here?” asked the woman volunteering at the homeless shelter.

“Well, uh…no. Do I look homeless?”

“Well, it could be your first day.”

Hmmm, I see. Women arrive at a shelter looking smokin’ hot and put together. I tried not to act too annoyed, after all homeless women these days look like pretty much anyone. But I took her words as a sign that I need to do the following:

a) Get less sun
b) Shave legs more often
c) Become better acquainted with the blow dryer.
d) All of the above

Yes, D, might be a good answer, but I choose C.  I fully blame the “blowout” salon movement for making the rest of us look homeless.  I will concede that I despise  blow drying my hair.  Crazy, I know. Who doesn’t love hot air blown on her face by an object the shape of a gun for thirty minutes in the summer?

Like any mortal woman my hair does not naturally dry in a fluffy, strand-separated way like a glossy Revlon model.   In the last few years, “Blowout” salons dedicated to the art of The Blow Dry have cropped up in West LA (along with Cupcake and Macaroon stores) and at 35+tip for a single service rake in women’s hard-earned retirement money.  It’s the new waxing of the VJ. (An activity involves paying someone to place hot wax on your privates and subsequently rip off the hair so we can all look 9-years-old and further pervify our culture…NO. THANK. YOU.). The relatively harmless blow dry movement  might score less points on the pain scale, but how long does a blow out last? I’ve never deigned to enter a Blow Out Salon, as within a 12 hour period my hair would go limp from humidity or a work out.

Just for today, I will become closer with my blow dryer.



This entry was posted in Annoyances, Beauty, misogyny, This Los Angeles Life, White People and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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