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My Hairbrush and Me




You know the Pandemic is getting to me when I blog about my hairbrush. But, hey, when writing is a lifeline as it is for me, any topic is fair game. Stick with me.


So, I'm out of the shower, have dried off, and am ready to "style" what has become an unruly head of hair with one side sitting fairly well over my ear and the other sticking out like the wings of the "Flying Nuns'" hat. What's a girl to do? My hair appointment is a week away. (One of the only good things I can say about adhering to the stay-safe guidelines during the spread of this virus is that masks often make it impossible to identify the person behind.)


Frustrated but determined, I open the top drawer under the bathroom sink to fetch my hairbrush. What the hell? Why isn't this drawer opening? Oh, okay, this has happened before. My hairbrush is stuck. No biggie.


But it was a biggie. I got down on my knees --no, not to pray but to get a better view. The handle of the brush jammed into the lip of the drawer, and the brush itself stuck into the plastic makeup container below as if it were a meteor slamming into Earth. All I have to do is stick my hand in there and set it free.


Not so fast. I tried and tried and tried again. After ten stabs, my wrist throbbed, and red welts began to puncture the top of my hand and my arm just above my wrist. It was if someone had kidnapped me and tied me up with heavy rope. But I was determined to get that hairbrush. Maybe a hammer or a screwdriver would do the trick. A screwdriver? Don't ask. I ran downstairs and grabbed said tools and ran back upstairs.


No luck. The hammer was too short, and the screwdriver not so good, either. The hairbrush and I were in Round 10 of a crucial matchup. Freeing the brush became much more than opening a stupid drawer. If I succeeded, I'd conquer the virus or find a vaccine or, hell, just have a few friends over for dinner. Inside.


After several more attempts with a variety of tools, my right hand was destroyed. In desperation, I tried my left. It had a direct shot. I touched the handle. I tugged, I swore, I prayed. Miraculously, after a thirty-minute ordeal, I yanked the brush out of the drawer. It had been a hard-fought battle but I'd won. I had the battle scars to prove it. Life was good again.


Today. Not so great. The red welts have turned a light mixture of black and blue. A neighbor saw my arm and asked "What the hell happened to you?"


Unlike the mask that hides my hair, only a long-sleeved shirt could hide my arm. But it's 89 degrees out there. I'd rather risk more comments that roast to death.









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