IN OTHER WORDS | I’m In Love With My Flat Iron

It’s true. For a girl who had a Roseanne Roseannadanna perm in her 20s, it’s hard to believe my favorite appliance is, in fact, my flat iron. She even has her own travel case.

Never, ever did I think I’d be that girl; a girl in love with a beauty appliance. I have complained, whether justifiably or not, about other physical attributes. And yes, that’s a feminist issue and this post is not about that. It’s just not. It’s about a freaking flat iron, so get in the right mindset, or go read Gloria Steinem. You can’t have it both ways.

I will say, I have pretty good hair. That’s one thing I’ve been blessed with. It has nice body, good color—although now, it mostly comes out of a tube—texture, shine. It’s healthy. Stylists have said so. I have to think they know. I can do long, I can do short. I’ve done curly (with mixed results, see picture circa late 80s), wavy, blow-outs, bangs, no bangs, pixie, bob, long, layered. I’ve tried it all. But, when I discovered the flat iron, oh Nirvana, I was home.

I never really mastered the art of the blow out so I often had funky results. I did best when I washed and styled daily (annoying). When I was younger, and I had more time, it usually looked great. I’m realizing that as I’ve gotten older, and lazier, maybe my hair thinned or I lost my touch, or both. At some point, about a decade ago, I went from long-all-over-dark-brown-plain-Jenny to, I’m-ready-for-bangs-and-a-new-look.

My stylist and friend of twenty years did a little happy dance and said “Yippee!”

Out came the foils, off came inches and voilà, bangs appeared, blonde highlights, layers were born, and at the end of it all, she wielded a strange and wonderful tool. She called it a “flat iron.” What was this unusual marvel of technology? You laugh. I am, in fact, a dork and should have known the flat iron. I knew of the flat iron; but we had never officially met. I was in awe. My hair glimmered in the light. It was smooth and shiny. I was a goddess. OK, let’s not get carried away, but my hair was goddess-esque.

I had to procure one of these magic tools. I asked my stylist and she, as always, gave me guidance.

“Don’t go to the drug store. You want a ceramic one or you’ll fry your hair.”

I took notes. Thanks to the wonder of the Internet, I found a magic wand of my very own. Once ordered, I waited, and when it arrived, I held it in my hands and marveled at its beauty. Since that day, I have been able to correct just about any flaw, even less than clean hair, and get by, with the flip of a few turns of ceramic heat.

I remember introducing her to my sister. She was flabbergasted, she too, a flat iron virgin.

“Why does your hair look so good?” she asked one day with equal parts flattery and jealousy, as only sisters can do.

“It’s my flat iron. Do you want to try it?”

“Yes.” And she did. And she took notes.