I can't stand blowing my hair out. I have sort-of-curly-sort-of-thick-sort-of-long hair. Not a ton of it, but enough to not air dry on its own very fast (or look very attractive for that matter). I complain and complain about having to blow it out, which is why I only do it about 2 times a month. At Beth's bachelorette party, I did it 2 nights in a row and entertained the idea of heading to the salon at the SLS where we were staying and pay some idiot $80 plus tip to do it for me. That's how much of a pain it is. That's how much I don't want to do it. And this is how it makes me feel:
Well, a really smart person decided to open a new annex of my own personal paradise. It's called Drybar. It's simple really, you go in, they wash your hair and give you the best blowout you've ever had and they only charge you $35. $35? I can barely get out of a restaurant for under $35. You, of course, tip handsomely, because you're so elated when you leave that your arm muscles aren't twitching from being up in the air with a round brush for the better part of an hour. They give you mimosas to drink. Sex and The City is playing on the flat screen. It's like a strip club for women. And your hair looks like this. (Forgive my makeup free Saturday early morning face).
There is one opening in West Hollywood in a few months and I am already dreaming about popping up to the new location for a fabulous blowout! HALLELUJAH.