I stare accusingly at my dead and silent blow dryer, cooling on the counter top, having breathed its final huff of warm air on Sunday night. It finally fell to the futility of having to whip my wet hair around my face once more. I place all of my blame in that faulty piece of equipment which forces me to sleep, wet head and all, shivering in the cold (no, it's not that warm in Texas yet) and makes me dream of seals and icebergs. I give a peeved glance at my straightener, but it's really not its fault. Its job is to straighten, not to dry or volumize. Clunk! goes the blow dryer, into the garbage bin. And into the trash goes all of my blame as well.
To an outside observer, the force with which I hurl it in may even suggest that I am the one who has blown the fuse.