bad hair day doesn't begin to cover it

One morning back in college I was brushing my teeth, leaning over the sink, and in one awkward flick of the Crest SparkleKids I had toothpaste in my hair. And if you've ever had toothpaste in your hair then I don't need to tell you this, but toothpaste doesn't just come out. It crusts. And clumps. And becomes part of your hair's ecosystem and necessary for maintaining homeostasis.

I'm in a hurry on this particular morning to get into the newsroom, so I brush it out as well as I can (which is not well at all), grab my things and go. About five minutes later as I pull into a spot in the parking lot across from the journalism building, I see in my rearview mirror that the boy whose affections I was at this point seeking was also parking his car at that exact moment on the other side of the lot.

Immediately, because my brain is hard-wired for awkward and spastic, I panic. THERE'S TOOTHPASTE IN YOUR HAIR! My inner voice is shrieking at me and I am obeying its every whim and freaking the eff right on out because what will happen if he sees me with the toothpaste in my hair? Who dates a girl who spits toothpaste into her OWN HAIR? Who? Knowing that he will be repulsed by the very sight of my mishap of dental hygiene and that I must do everything I can to avoid such an unthinkable disaster, I whip that car door open and I am moving at a speed that perhaps would only be necessary in a bomb scare or alternate terrorist-type situation.

I see him approaching, and I know he sees me, but I grab my bag out of the trunk and make a bee-line for the building, pretending that I didn't notice him, my crusty hair just a-flappin' in the wind like the official national flag of Awkwardland, flying at half-staff in mourning for my dignity.

Now, I tell you all of this because -- I have plastic in my hair.

Like, hardened bits of plastic. All melded into my hair particles. Why? Why is this? Am I trying out for the next Lady GaGa video? No, no I wish that were the case. Actually what happened is that I left my 400 degree flat iron sitting on top of a plastic three-drawer rolling shelf thing-a-ma-jig and it melted the plastic right off the damn thing and (despite the PUTRID odor of incinerated synthetic fibers) I didn't realize this was happening and just sent that flat iron for a joy ride through my locks, leaving trails of white melty plastic all in its wake.

The good news is that mostly it is confined to one area of my hair and that mostly I think I've gotten it (sort of, a little) brushed out and that MOSTLY it is not noticeable at all, to anyone, except to me. In that way I imagine it is not unlike the toothpaste that caused me to break into a sprint to flee an oncoming cute boy. Whoops.

The victory here is how I'm handling the plastic chunks in my hair, really. Because -- though the situation itself will go down in the awkward hall of fame, along with most things I do -- I have not allowed it to make me behave awkwardly (any more than usual). I simply tell the story, and it's good enough comic relief, and since not a SOUL but me even knows the stuff is there, everyone sort of moves on from the issue.

Now that part is decidedly UNLIKE the toothpaste incident, because I did feel it necessary -- when I eventually did go on an actual date with this boy, a week or two later -- to bring up, completely unprompted and totally of my own doing, the morning when I beat feet to get away from him like a crazy person. He did comment that he had seen me that day, but he did not -- did NOT -- mention that I had behaved in any way out of the ordinary. Could I have stopped there? Could I? Yes. Yes I could. But did I?

Have you read this blog before?

I decided to share with him that I had fled the scene because I had toothpaste in my hair.



I think my number might've mysteriously disappeared from his phone after that. And good grief. I really don't blame him.


cheers,
elizabeth