So a few of my bloggy friends requested details of The Brush Incident. It more or less boils down to: I am a giant dork. With the hair-styling aptitude of a five-year old.
I fear I exaggerated a bit. It was only in my hair for six hours. The last hour was spent trying to work the resultant knot out of my hair. But, really, I should start at the beginning, such as it is.
It begins with dashing in to a drug store on the way out of town to replace a broken brush. Can't find an exact replacement, but one round brush is like another, yes? (No.)
While wriggling the brush free of its little plastic holder, I notice that the back tells you not to wind the hair more than 3/4 of the way around the brush, to prevent tangling. Pffft, think I, dismissing it as the equivalent of the "Contents are HOT" warning on coffee cups. Proceed to wind up a good size section of hair all the way from ends to roots (in the front of my head, of course) while drying my hair.
And then it was stuck. Just like that. As if encased in cement. Would. Not. Budge.
The next six hours are a bit of a blur, mostly of me doing everything I could think of to try and set the brush free, first in the hotel room until check-out forced us out, then in the car and parking lot as we searched for manicure scissors in ridiculously tiny coastal towns, and finally on the ride home. There were furtive dashes across parking lots with my hood pulled up to (unsuccessfully) hide the brush dangling charmingly along the side of my face. An bristle-ectomy that I abruptly aborted when I freaked out over little 2-inch sections of hair that were cut off along with some bristles (ah, if only I knew what was coming). I managed to work it a few inches down my hair over all that time, just enough to keep me believing that I would somehow be able to work it all the way free.
We had recently watched Julie & Julia* and I kept thinking that Julia Child would have laughed heartily at herself and chopped off the hair with a pair of (exquisite, French) kitchen shears. It turns out I am no Julia Child.
To answer Mama2roo's question, I never did reach the "F it, cut it out!" stage. I don't have a ton of hair, so it's hard to hide anything, and I couldn't bear the thought of a one-inch chunk sticking out. I eventually admitted defeat and took Todd up on his offer to try and remove the brush. I closed my eyes and he did something that I don't want to know about and it was out, leaving an enormous knot behind. I worked at the knot with loads of conditioner and my fingers for what felt like forever. I got the knot out, but it turned into a little pile of long, very well conditioned strands of hair that were no longer attached to my head. And a spot on my head that is still sore.
Then I turned into a weeping, apologetic mess for having ruined the whole day.
* This has nothing to do with anything, but watching the movie sent me browsing through the blog that spawned the book that became the movie. I was floored by how non-anonymous her blog was. You know her name, her employer, her husband's employer, the street they live on, the business underneath their apartment. The internet was a different world in 2002.