not as crazy as they thought

A little bit of Kiri lore for you this morning: I do not, as a general rule, use a blow dryer.

This may seem like a very trivial thing, especially to some of the dudes out there who are wondering who in their right mind would ever spend twenty minutes on something like that, but it has resulted in a vast amount of mockery from the female world ever since I developed boobies.  I had a friend in junior high who was forever berating me for my blow dryer-less life and demanding to know why I don’t use such a blessed invention.  I would swiftly respond that G-d invented air and I intended to use it and that was that.

To this day, I still make a point of calling Stacy (another refugee of Chiddix and a fellow friend to The Blow Dryer Queen) and informing her of my womynlyness whenever I use my mum’s blow dryer (I, like the aforementioned dudes, also don’t understand this waste of twenty dollars).

Since entering university, I have come to find that I have been living with another worshiper of the blow dryer alter.  It’s a wonderful sound to be jolted from sleep by, let me tell you.  This has always been my basic frustration with blow dryers: the noise.  I can’t stand loud, continuous, mechanical sounds.  I hate them.  They hurt my ears.  This is why I don’t like to vacuum.  It has only be recently, however, that I’ve discovered my true distaste for the hair drying menace.

Its smell.

Maybe this is just Chelsea’s blow dryer, but whenever she dries her hair with it, the entire room reeks as if she just set a Persian on fire.  A wet Persian.  Probably a Calico.  I’ll walk out of the bathroom, having just had a nice, fruity-scented shower, and my nostrils will immediately be filled with this monstrosity.

Add to that Matt’s Sensodyne (which is currently all over the faucet, which at least explains why the room smells like that) and her constant need to apply a thick coat of Victoria’s Secret Love Spell Body Mist and you’ve got a very unhappy pot of sensory gumbo going on right there.  And when they leave, the scent lingers.  It’s been over ten minutes now and I still can’t get the wretched scent out of my nose.

Needless to say, Housing still hasn’t called me back.  Homicide is looking like a very pleasant option at present.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Asbjorn
    Sep 18, 2008 @ 17:56:49

    I just can’t do too much with blow dryers myself. I just wash it and tie it back and eventually it gets dry. Most wymmen of my acquiantance do do the hair dryer thing in greater or lesser quantities. I believe that Becky Bradway learning to use a hair dryer was a seminal event in her teenage life, though later she rejected all that fem stuff, except of course when she was stalking some one new.

    Anyway, I agree about the smell. Did you get my email blog?


  2. erik
    Sep 26, 2008 @ 01:35:32

    i know some people who like hair-dryer-armpit-sex.


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