The Day My GHD Went Psycho

Looking forward to a night on the town with the girls, I found myself with,  instead of the usual mad dash of shower, hair, face, dress get me out of here performance, I usually do, an exorbitantly long time to get ready and to top it off nobody else was at home.

Feeling fabulous, I took my time applying my new RMS eye polish, (they’re so posh they don’t call it eye shadow) and with Mario, (I had to name him because it was love at first sight) my GHD hair straightener, heating nicely beside me.  Everything was going along perfectly, well that is, until Mario, jumped off the bench and attacked me as I bent down to pick my mascara up off the floor.  For some reason, I didn’t notice at first but then I felt a strange sensation spreading up my arm, it felt like it was on fire.  Mario was clamped to my wrist.

“Mario,” I shrieked.  “What are you doing?” I shook him off but the damage was already done.  Big, red, marks glowered at me from both sides of my wrist and the unsettling smell of burning flesh wafted through the air.

Cold running water gave me sweet relief and after a while I was able to continue dressing.  But the pain quickly reared its ugly head again and became so intense I found myself pulling on my dress and running braless down the road to the chemist.  Never before have I been so thankful for my small, boy boobs.

The girls behind the counter almost gagged when they saw my wrist, or was it my half done face, who knows.  I like to think it was my wrist because white bubbles were popping up all over the surface, on both sides, before merging into one, giant, yellow blister.

“And how did you do this,” the pharmacist asked, looking at my arm with distaste.

“Mario attacked me,” I said without thinking.

“Mario! Who is Mario?” he asked with concern.

“Mario is my GHD,” I explained feeling extremely foolish.

“You mean to tell me your hair iron burnt your arm?” he said looking at me as though I was a complete and utter imbecile.  The girls sniggered.  “Take this home, apply when necessary.  Do not bandage your arm,” he instructed as he handed me a tube of cream.

Leaving them sniggering behind me, I jiggled back home and swathed my wrist joyously with the cooling cream.

Refusing to let Mario ruin my night, I managed to get dressed and even straightened the rest of my hair before driving to the restaurant.

Blissfully, I sipped my wine while waiting for my friends to arrive.  My wrist was pretty much numbed by the cream at this stage, so it didn’t occur to that the whispering from the other tables was actually directed at me, until a waiter politely asked if I would like some ice for my arm.

What he really wanted to say was, “Madam would you please put your frigging arm under the table before you send everyone into a vomiting frenzy.” I could tell by the look of desperation in his eyes.  He then, very kindly placed a bucket of ice beside me, without the champagne mind you, and waited until I slipped my hand inside before leaving me alone.

“Why the hell do you have your hand in a champagne bucket?” one friend asked.

“You’re not smashed already are you?” another asked.

“No, of course not,” I replied offended.  “Have a look at this,” I said producing, to their immense horror, my festering wrist.

Unfortunately, one of the blisters had popped and yellow pus was oozing from the wound.  My friends gaped at me in disgust and I could distinctly hear groaning from the other tables.

 

Before I knew it, with friends in tow, I found myself at the emergency department where it was confirmed that I did have third degree burns but, thankfully, I did not appear to need a skin graft.  Instead I have been left with two rather nasty scars which, in summer look more pronounced when my skin changes color.

I did contemplate burying Mario in the backyard but my hair yearned for him.  He will never regain my trust again, no matter how good a job he does.

Please, if you have a Mario out there who has attacked you, please share, so I know I’m not the only one.
Copyright 2016