Ode to my wet-to-dry flat iron:
Oh, how I love thee.
Your black enamel casing quietly hides your power.
When I unlock your locking mechanism.
I am transported to a whole new world of heat therapy.
With your three settings, high being my favorite,
Your level of heat transforms my wet locks to dry tresses.
It’s not your fault I haven’t had a haircut in 6 months
and my ends are all jagged.
I shan’t even mention it.
Except I just did mention it.
Let me instead dote on your steam vents
that release …erm, steam of course
that sometimes burns my hand
or anything flesh related.
It’s my fault for not paying attention
and my children’s fault for dripping toothpaste on me.
But I digress, sweet flat iron.
Where was I? Oh yes.
Your tiny foldable frame fits so nicely in my palm.
Although, I do get a small cramp when I have to squeeze the tong thingies for humongously long periods of time
and I think I said a small cuss word in your presence when I gave myself a crimp.
Forgive me, sweet iron.
It’s not your fault I am so inept
and chose to grow long hair
or even the fact that I have staticky hair later.
That’s not your fault, either.
Is staticky a real word?
I don’t know.
But love is a word, so are joy and devotion.
All are words I use in tandem with thee, sweet flat iron.
Please don’t break on me, I shall cry real tears.
Thank you for the one good hair day I’ve had in 3 years.