Blowdryer
by Ellen Cherry
It seems certain rites of passage for females in the modern era may be marked by the purchase of small appliances.
In my case, my ascendance from childhood to adolescence occurred the summer I was 14 when I received my Gillette Promax Compact blow dryer.
Return with me to those days, when the many-layered tresses of Farrah Fawcett-Majors were the rage in hairdos, when feathered bangs were the dream of every self-respecting high school girl.
It was the ’70s, all right.
So from this great distance of time and hairstyle evolution, we can only wonder at just how significant a moment this was in the life of a style-conscious teen. And remember, the blow dryer itself hadn’t been around all that long. Being presented with one of my very own made the occasion even more momentous.
Well, we’re a long way from the ’70s and I’m a long way from 14 and that dear little Gillette Promax Compact has faithfully blown me dry every morning from then to now.
Promax, adorned with smiley-face stickers, cruised with me through high-school band trips and college road trips. It performed admirably on the morning of my wedding, on the morning I became a mother — and still it fires up each morning with its unique, powerful growl and satisfyingly hot heat.
Seventeen years is a long, long life for such an inglorious appliance and years ago I anticipated its demise. In college, I often mused about its longevity. Later, when I acquired a husband, he came equipped with a blow dryer (though never used) and I stored it close at hand, thinking it soon would be pressed into service.
In my 28th year, I marveled that good old Promax was as old as I was when I became its proud owner. Now I just look at it each morning and marvel that my entire blow-drying life has been spent with the same little discolored, chipped, slightly tattered hair dryer that I so enthusiastically acquired when I was still young enough to go to summer camp.
I know the day will come when dear little Promax will roar no more. My husband, at least, is tired of how often I shout through a screen of wet hair, “do you realize how OLD this blow-dryer is?!” It’s inevitable — Mr. Promax won’t last forever. (I’ve sort of given it a personality after all these years.)
But I’m thinking of calling Guinness. Isn’t there some kind of world record for the oldest icon of the ’70s still in daily use?