At a rummage sale recently, I smiled happily to myself at the sight of a familiar-looking bright red blow dryer for sale, a Clairol© Son of a Gun, one of which I previously owned. Apparently they are now “vintage.” I drew a picture of it in a college art class.
When I was a teenager still living with my parents and enough of our older siblings had moved (and stayed) out, my sister (who was two years older) and I finally got to have separate bedrooms. Yet my sister would arrive at my door pleading for help because her hair dryer, a different brand, had once again sucked her long blonde hair into the back air vents and entrapped it. There she’d be with her head bent at an odd angle, hair dryer dangling and effectively stuck to her head till I’d help her get untangled. She called her blow dryer Son of a Bitch.