Sleeping with Darth Vader

artfire.com

Years ago, my mother had one of those old hair dryers that came in a hard plastic case with three golden buckles along the sides.  On the days Mom set her hair, she’d call for one of us to get that case and open it up.  She’d remove the plastic cap which she’d fit over her curlers before drawing it tightly around her head until only the thick pink curler pins pressing against her forehead showed beneath the elastic.  Curled around the motor of the dryer was a clear flexible hose; really just a piece of soft plastic supported by a long wire that curled along the inside.  Mom would plug the hose into the cap and sit there beneath the blast of hot air while her hair dried.  My sisters and I would gather round, our curiosity piqued by this regimen of beauty, holding our unpolished fingernails above the piece labeled nail dryer—the circular disk on top of the motor through which cool air shot out.  One winter day, we used that dryer to encourage the flames in the fireplace, thus melting a hole into the hose.  The plastic hardened and turned black and the air from the dryer would no longer make it all the way to the plastic cap.

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