There is nothing in the pantheon of grooming practices that irritates me more than drying my hair. It takes forever and it’s boring. I try to find some way of entertaining myself at all times, but there is very little one can do with no hands and a blaring hot device that sounds like something a car does to tell you it needs repairs waving around your head. I hate it. And, to top it off, my hair dryer is a hand-me-down (praise my dear Rox) because I hate the task so much that the idea of actually going out into the world to buy something as offensive as a blow dryer makes me want to blow dry my kneecaps off. Is Warren Beatty drying my hair? No. Am I wearing marabou slippers? No. Do I swear at myself, at the blow dryer, at the comb? Yes. There is no glamour, there is no pleasure, there is only a whir of noise and utter assholishness between wet and dry hair, and facing the world.