Republished from Vernacular Nicely Said #46 —
Hello. It’s me – not some wretched chat bot. What a relief. Anyway, I had to unload this on to you..
With so few hairs on my head, I’ve never given much thought to hair dryers.
But lately I’ve been thinking dark thoughts about these popular devices.
Here’s why: Twice a week I like to swim at the local pool. As much as you keep your gaze low in changing rooms, it’s impossible to not see bent over bodies poking wet feet through dry underpants, shirts snagging on damp elbows, and heads bursting from darkness to daylight through t-shirt neck holes.
Doors of wooden cubby holes open and slam closed. An assortment of human shapes and sizes ghost sopping in and out of the showers. Some of them forget where they’ve put their clothes and drift naked and confused about the place, peering hopefully into empty lockers and around the corners of changing room dividers.
But the real show is in front of the mirrors. Handheld hair dryers lie scattered along the mirror bench. Just the thing for blokes with a lion’s mane and a lust for post-swimming hair styling, additional volume, and reduced frizz.
By my calculation, these devices spend more than half their active service pointed at hair on other parts of the human body.
Just the other day I saw from the tiniest corner of my eye a giant, saggy-fleshed form (squeezed into a black G-string, no less) grab a fistful of pendulous man-boob (his own) and jab the dryer nozzle at the rarely seen territory beneath his fleshy overhang. His drying action was aggressive, a jabbing motion, like he was trying to dislodge a shy rodent taking refuge there.
Others stand stark naked, feet apart, holding the dryer in a reverse grip at arms length, like they’re about to tee off. Only there’s no swinging, just a frozen stance as they luxuriate in the hot breeze tenderly whisking moisture away from their precious bits. Perhaps this is how Marilyn Munroe felt when a passing subway train blew a warm breeze up the air vent she was standing over. I mean, she never moved away in a hurry, which gave the photographer ample time to take a photo of her white billowing dress.
But there are no cameras operating in pool changing rooms (at least, none that I’ve noticed, but you never know…); no iconic shots begging for capture. Just a study of human strangeness and shameless inconsiderate behaviour.
I mean, who in their right mind would use these hair dryers given the places they’ve been? Does this happen in the ladies? Am I the only one disturbed by this grotesque tableau?
Actually, I’m not the only one. Just this week, as I poked damp toes through undies leg holes, I heard an urgent voice. “Excuse me, EXCUSE ME!” The voice moved towards the mirrors and the whine of a hair dryer. “That is for your head – not your dick!”
“So sorry,” the voice replied. And then an earnest and grateful “Thank you”.
Do manufacturers of these devices know what’s going on? Would pool changing room behaviour shock them to the core? Why wasn’t this unsavoury usage unearthed in a consumer focus group? Did the group moderator pose the question only to be met with silent, shifting eyes? A clue, surely.
Product designers are missing a fantastic opportunity to distinguish their products in the cluttered hair dryer market. Like cameras and tripods, hair dryers should come with a broom stick attachment, a selfie stick of sorts, so users can stand comfortably – legs apart, eyes closed – and position the hot breeze for their own naked and proud Marilyn Monroe moment. No awkward bending or clumsy reverse grip. Just a billow of pubic hair.
Keep reading, magnificent humans.