Tuesday, August 17, 2010
When the top of my left foot slammed into the bottom of the chair at the hair salon, it hurt but I was in too much of a hurry to give it a lot of thought. My foot was only bleeding a little and we were leaving town early the next morning and I hadn’t finished packing yet. There was no time allotted in my schedule for any type of injury.
I had read that the weather would be hot and humid while we were in New York. More importantly, it would be hot and humid while my hair was in New York. Humidity is not kind to my hair. Anything above 70% humidity transports my sleek do immediately back to 1986, a sporty style that would only be appropriate if I was into Whitesnake. While I have made many, questionable decisions over the years, being into Whitesnake, isn’t one of them. You know, yet.
My friend Karen, a living witness to my old 80's hair, had gently insisted that I get my roots done before my trip and also try the new “Brazilian Blow Out.” The Brazilian Blow Out is a three-hour hair procedure that promises to eliminate frizz and keep even those of us blessed with a Weird Al hair situation looking fabulous. As a bonus, my mom had mentioned to one of her friends that I was getting a “Brazilian” and I then got to explain to my mother, the difference between a Brazilian and a Brazilian.
By midnight, my newly glorious hair and I were zipping up Bob’s Thomas the Tank Engine suitcase. I had six hours to sleep before the trek to the airport. Conventional wisdom and my primary care physician, aka WebMd, suggested elevation, Ibuprofin and intermittent ice packs for my foot but I was tired. My hair was tired. I closed my eyes and I slept. My foot apparently, did not. When the alarm went off the next morning, I found that my throbbing, blue and swollen foot had taken on a life of its own: a life that would not fit easily into any cute shoes. "Not easily” is not the same as “will not” so I jammed the foot in and kept going.
The next four days were a blur of walking, running, stair climbing, standing, escalators, subways, cabs, planes, and dancing. Much of this done in high heels. I popped an Advil now and then but not once did I visit the ice machine down the hotel hallway and apply ice to my foot. The only time I elevated it was when I was sleeping and that was unavoidable. I was having a great time. I could not hear my foot screaming above the din of all of the New York fun we were having. And by “we” I mean me and my lovely hair and my other foot.
To be continued…