Once upon a time Hiroko cut me beautiful cutey bangs/fringe. I hearted them. A lot. I felt a little Reese Witherspoon in those days.
But those were the exception to the rule of my life: the cow lick is boss. So for the most part hairdressers categorically refuse to give me proper bangs. Even Hiroko bans me now. It’s a little offensive to tell you the truth. But they won’t do it. Instead they give me those annoying faux-bangs- you know the ones I am talking about. A few hairs, a few chops, and they are supposed to dramatically sweep your face at an angle. Which they do as you walk out of the salon, and then never again. Which is why most days you find me looking pathetic in that department.
(sorry, best awful-bangs pic I could find)
Which is why, and there is a point here, every day of my life I reflexively put a bobby pin into my pocket. Just in case. Just in case at some point my fake too-long greasy excuse for “bangs” are driving me so totally batty that I need to get them off my face. Stat. That’s the theory behind the daily tic. But in reality, I never use said bobby pin. Why solve a problem when you can complain about it?
So because of this habit, my clothes often go into the washer/dryer (remember my awesome dual machine?) with a bobby pin attached. It turns out stray bobby pins are not good for washing machine motors. Something like that. Because we have already paid a hundred pounds for repairs, at some point along the way I solemnly vowed to never again allow a bobby pin to enter the wash. And for a time I religiously searched pockets before depositing the clothes in. Which turned out to serve two purposes. I could also save all my hypochondriac husband’s balled-up tissues from getting washed thereby cutting down my weekly lintbrush rolling time. Are you still with me?
The other day our washer/dryer just makes a screeching noise and then stops working. And I panic. I hate this flat. I hate the landlord. I hate this country. Why does God not want me to have clean laundry. We have guests coming. A baby. I have my fashion-forward trendsetting reputation to uphold. The list goes on. Names are called. People are called. Repair visits are scheduled.
When out of the clear blue…
Bryan gets down on the floor and starts to take the machine apart.
And I am like, honey, I love you but we both know you will make this situation worse with your DIY track record.
He doesn’t listen.
I roll my eyes.
I go online and check out TMZ. I miss my magazines.
And then all of the sudden I hear the washer!
Well I’LL BE. He fixed it. I could not have been prouder if he won a gold medal in the 100m race at the Olympics.
So I said, omg, HOW did you do that?
Go look on the kitchen counter, he says.