Short-Story Bad-Hair-Day

Bad Hairday

"Hair is the adornment of every woman!" I don't know whosoever has said that, but I would like to show my head to that person in the mornings; or more precisely: My hair!

I must admit: There are numerous styling possibilities; from simple hairspray to ultrastrong hair lacquer. There are various backcombing combs and curling irons -a hairdryer with a diffuser, and the good old drying hood for retro fans.

It is seven o' clock in the morning. I got up too late. My first appointment is at eight o' clock. A look in the mirror reveals: Today won't certainly be my ` good Hairday´.

Is it actually my hair color? Or is it the rest of my nightmare that is still haunting me?

Now, however, I don't have the time for applying semi-permanent hair color and let it take effect for a while, just to realize that it would have been better to go to a hairdresser.

A quick styling is the only choice I have; my dry hair, of course. Washing it would take too long.

So, I determinedly reach for a multi-colored spray can with the label: `Strong Hold´

After several vigorous brush strokes through my shoulder-length hair, I generously spray on it: That miraculous product.

A miracle had happened indeed; the result sends ice-cold shivers down my spine and to the tips of my toes. Instead of the desired straight and magnificent head of hair, a frizzy flip is towering on the right side of my head. On the left, my strands of hair look like ironed lametta. In comparison to me, Medusa must have been a beauty queen. Have I spread the spray too unevenly?

No problem. The label on the can says, "You can brush it out."

I try to brush it out, and as a result, my hair starts to protest, and so does my scalp. The first mentioned part of my body stick out, and the second one bites enormously. A glance at my watch throws me into a state of panic.

What kind of advice did my sister give me once? I should moist my hair and style it afterwards. I shall style it! Not ruin it!

A spray bottle of water is on the windowsill in the living room. It is actually designed for misting the flowers.

On my way to the living room, I remember that there are several documents in my office, which I must put into my working bag. Important! Important!

The phone rings in my office. Fortunately, I have a button in my mind, which flashes `ignore´. Time is of the essence.

With my working bag and my ring binder, I rush into the living room and fetch the spray bottle from the windowsill. In doing so, the ring binder slips from my hand. Unfortunately, it opens, as it falls. Was that really necessary? The documents are spread on the floor. It doesn't matter. First my hair, and then the sheets of paper. I enter the bathroom. Before that, however, I must get rid of my working bag. Where shall I put it? Not on the floor. It could get wet. Into the tub? No, it is still wet from the shower. Damned! I should have washed my hair in the first place. Why haven't I put the bag down in the hall?

Finally, I hang the bag on the hook of the bathroom door, and I immediately start to spray my hair. Not too much, but not too less either. A look in the mirror turns out to be a psycho test. I have a wet dust mop on my head. It doesn't matter: The hairdryer will redo my hair. I quickly attach the diffuser (from my sister as well), and I start to blow-dry. Maybe I should brush my hair in between? Or would a natural style look better? Now I remember it again: Blow-dry overhead was the name of the game.

So, I bend down and put my hair forward, just like it has been described to me. My elbow touches the spray bottle of water, which consequently drops to the floor, of course. As I try to pick it up, the cord of the hairdryer gets entangled with the handle of the bathroom door. Darned tiny bathroom! I try to disentangle the cord, while I don't stop blow-drying. As a result of my efforts, my working bag, along with the hook, falls down. I haven't closed the bag, so that its complete content slides on the wet tiles - inclusive my cell phone, which starts to ring at this very moment. Why have I chosen that annoying ringtone? Old-fashioned jingle!

In the meantime, the cord has gotten entangled in my hair. I straighten myself, and I bump my forehead on the door handle. I don't have the time to focus on the many little stars in front of my eyes, because the spray bottle must have rolled under my foot somehow. I trip, and I try to cling to the lavatory, thereby dropping the cosmetic back. Well, a well-decorated bathroom floor is nothing to sneeze at, if you look at the matter from an ironic point of view.

The cell phone stops ringing. Instead, I merely hear a soft `pling´. The caller has left a voicemail message.

Laboriously, I pull myself up on the lavatory and I look in the mirror. My hair doesn't look any better than before, but a nice bump is bulging on my forehead. I should cool it, but with what? I don't have any ice in the freezer. I do! I remember the container of strawberry and vanilla ice cream a friend has brought along. Stepping over the working bag, the hairdryer and the cosmetics, I try to avoid looking in the mirror.

Something is pulling at my hair. The curling brush, I wanted to increase the volume of my coiffure and style it with, has gotten entangled in it. On my way to the kitchen, I try to remove that damned thing from my mop of frizzy hair with growing desperation. It doesn't work. Instead, I rip out more and more hairs.

With the container of strawberry and vanilla ice cream, I run back into the bathroom.

Cooling the bump was next up on the agenda. It is a bit difficult if you try to disentangle a curling brush from matted hair at the same time. I give up, and I throw the container of ice cream into the tub. There is no point in that!

"Damned!"

With a deep sigh, I reach for the scissors and snip my hair, until I can finally remove the brush.

"Damn it to hell!"

The curse refers to the result of my hair release operation. I have a hole in my coiffure. Coiffure? No, that's the wrong word, as it seems.

What next?

I anxiously glance at my watch.

Ten to eight! I must be in the city in ten minutes. Appointment is appointment!

What does a woman do in case her hair isn't beautiful? She puts on a hat. There is still such a thing in the cupboard in the hall. In a fit of youthful obsession, I bought it in the eighties - a purple floppy head, ornamented with a pink-colored ribbon.

Somehow, the purple hat doesn't exactly correspond to my chocolate-colored pantsuit. However, it is better than a hole on your scalp.

In record time, I pack my work utensils, put on that hat, and along with my car key, I close the door behind me.

I bump into my neighbor on the stairs. Usually, he greets me very politely. Today, however, he seems to be thunderstruck, as he stares at me. He turns around, and I think that I hear a malicious giggle. No, no! I must be wrong, of course.

It is a good thing that I didn't park my car in the parking garage yesterday. It would have cost even more time. It is parked in front of the house, in a public parking lot. A parking ticket is attached to my windshield wipers. But I don't have the time to be annoyed. In five minutes exactly, I have to drive into the city and to look for a parking space once again.

The traffic is horrifyingly bustling. I will arrive too late.  I have to stop at a red traffic light one more time. A glance in the rearview mirror reveals to me that I looked better at other times. There is a stain on the left side of the brim of that floppy hat. I remember that the hat was used during a game once. It was very funny back then. Was it red wine or coke? I try to cover the stain with the hatband. It doesn't work. It is too narrow.

A horn is blowing behind me.

The light is green. I must pull away quickly. I can't adhere to the speed limit of fifty. All of a sudden, there is a red flash. No, it can't be. Several traffic violation points have already been registered in Flensburg. That could be a close shave this time. Nevertheless, I bravely drive on. I have to keep that appointment at all events.

As by a miracle, I immediately find a vacant parking space in front of the business location. I set the parking disk. (Actually, I should pull a ticket, but I have no time to spare.)

I hastily jump out of the car and slam the driver's door shut. One of the ends of the hatband is stuck between the car and the door. The hat is snatched off my head.

Unfortunately, that thing falls into a puddle.

Darn it! What shall I put on now?

I remember the scarf on the backseat. That white chiffon cloth is almost transparent, but I don't care.

"Good morning!" somebody calls behind me.

"Oh, are you dressing up?" The woman, a colleague from a different department, is grinning at me cheekily.

"Yes, I am almost finished," I answer curtly. Stupid cow. Shall mind her own business. With my head enveloped in the scarf, I rather look like someone with a head bandage. However, it is only important that nobody can see my hair. Another advantage is that my bump is covered. As if chased by thousand devils, I rush into the lobby. Unfortunately, I fail to notice that the automatic door cannot keep up with my speed.

Another bump. Thanks.

The elevator is on the 24th floor, of course. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

The stairs?

Better not. I am wearing those damned high heels. A special offer of that shoe discounter.

All of a sudden, that impertinent colleague is standing next to me.

"Groovy scarf," she giggles.

Inwardly, I want to hit her. Outwardly, I am mega cool, and I say,

"It is in fashion now!"

The elevator is here. We get inside. My colleague looks in the mirror, which is affixed in the elevator, and I follow her example.

Horrible! I look horrible. The scarf has slipped out of place, and my ruined, magnificent head of hair is visible.

"Bad Hairday!" my colleague comments with a snarky undertone.

What's the point of that?

It seems that she is keen on a fight. After my experiences this morning, I am pretty prone to deal out some slaps in the face.

Nevertheless, I keep my temper and I say,

"Look at yourself in the mirror!"

She looks in the mirror again and she replies,

"Everything is fine."

My colleague gets out on the tenth floor, and I am alone. Alone and prepared to meet the challenge. The scarf is adjusted. My working bag is checked. The lapel of my jacket is plucked.

My hair?

My hair mustn't play a role during the presentation.

Does it?

When I step out of the elevator, the scarf slips out of place again. My working bag is in the way. I put it down and pull the scarf lower over my forehead.

My boss is approaching me. He looks enraged. Sometimes, bosses are so emotional.

"What in hell are you doing here?" he yells at me.

"Um, well, the appointment? Eight o' clock?"

"Postponed! The appointment for the presentation has been postponed! Why don't you listen to your voicemail?"

He hesitates, and he stares at me as if I were a rare insect.

"You...You have to conduct a tour through the production facilities at nine o' clock..."

I force a smile.

"Well, then I will start on my way right away," I answer, and I am about to leave.

"No! No! It isn't necessary. We will find someone else for that..." His eyes are still resting on my head.

"Maybe you should take this morning off and enjoy yourself. What about going to a hairdresser?"

 Copyright Irmgard

2013

Translation by Melanie Haupt