Man cannot live on bread alone, and a curly-haired woman cannot live without hair straighteners.
With curly hair, I feel unprepared and ditsy. The act of straightening my hair, smooths out the crinkles and crimps in my life, and leaves me feeling ordered , ready to face the chaos of the day and tame it.
With straight hair, I am in control.
Just before unofficial date number five disaster struck. Strand of hair clamped between two super-heated ceramic GHD plates, I heard a crackle, then smelled something hot and electric, and then I saw smoke.
Disaster – fortunately it wasn’t my hair on fire, but clearly I couldn’t keep on with the straighteners.
So I took a leap of faith, wrapped up my straighteners in bubble wrap and wrote a plaintiff note to the manufacturer, begging them to fix them, even though I don’t know my hologram code, or my date code. Even though they’re out of warranty. Even though I don’t still own the box. Please.
I put my address and phone number on the note, asked them to invoice me, and sent them away to Keighley.
A couple of days later, it occurred to me that I had just acted in complete and utter trust. I sent my package in good faith that they’d do the work and return them to me. That they would have the same good faith in me to pay them. No guarantees for either of us. They might get my smokin’ straighteners and bin them. I might never pay them.
So I was a little bit relieved when I got a text from them this morning, informing me that my parcel had arrived and that they’d inform me on their course of action in the next week or so.
I am hopeful that they will come back, and that order will once more be restored, both on my hair, and in my world, once more.