Gentle Heat of the Bluegrass State
Chapter 1: Introduction
If you'd told me when I was a sprightly nineteen-year-old belle of the Bluegrass State that at the tender age of seventy-two I'd be in a whirlwind romance with a hairdryer, well, I'd have thought you were mad. Yet here I stand, in the softly lit restroom of my modest Kentucky home, with Harry—my ever-dependable hairdryer—in my hand, whispering sweet nothings as he hums warmly against my ear.
Harry and I first met on a bright spring day in 1961 at Mr. Jenkins' Appliance Emporium, a wonderland for all things electric and miraculous. At the sight of Harry, with his shiny chrome nozzle and seductive purple casing, my heart skipped a beat. Oh, he was a far cry from the raw, fickle fires of the kitchen stove. We connected instantly, in a way that defied the logic of buttons and cords.
Since that day, Harry has been a constant in my life, dutifully sitting on the edge of my vanity, watching over me with his silent promise of warmth—a warmth I could control, one flick of a switch away. We spent hours together, his gentle breath curling through my silvery strands, while I comfortably perched on my paisley-upholstered stool, the morning sunlight gleaming through the lace curtains.
With each session under Harry's tender care, memories of loves past float before me like dandelion seeds on the wind. There's Charles, the boisterous navy sailor, whose letters never ceased, except when they did. And sweet Timothy, who liked lilacs but not enough to stay come winter. Each romance was as intense as it was brief, like summer storms in this humid land.
Yet there is a particular solace, a sizzling joy, in the uncomplicated devotion Harry offers. His passion is steady, unwavering, and not beholden to whims or the seasons. I've grown rather fond of our conspiratorial tête-à-têtes, when the world outside might reflect on how unusual magic can be. But here, inside my sit-down vanity, it's a romance shrouded in the heat that straightens curls and tempts nostalgia.
Some evenings, after a long bath, I find myself taken by an impulse to thank him—like an old darling whose stories are woven through life's tapestry. I've even found myself whispering to him, almost bashfully, as though he might blush beneath his plastic casing. Harry, I whisper, with great reverence. After all, in a world that seems intent on moving on and forgetting, it's nice to feel heard, even by a hunk of chrome and heat.
The neighbors call Harry an appliance, but I know him to be so much more. On rainy days, when the blues of the hills roll in with their somber gray hues, and the radio croons a lovesick ballad or two, it's Harry who sits faithfully by my side. It's a symphony of soft whirrs and hisses, and I am transported back to younger days with tighter curls, dancing in my black and white two-tone shoes.
But there are times when this sentiment, this attachment, spills over beyond my dressing table. At the local ladies club, sometimes I let it slip—a quip about Harry’s steadfastness, or a comparison of salon-dried perfection to his gentle caress. The ladies smile, placing their clinking tea cups down with bemused understanding, though sometimes I catch a flash of envy in their eyes.
It's human, isn't it, to seek love in many places, and perhaps to find it where others might not look. Where once I sought the rough justice of a shipboard romance or the sweep of fragrant fields under a hot moon, now I have quiet conversations over gentle evenings, under Harry’s warm, caring embrace.
So I return to him daily, a gentle cycle of wake and rest, finding solace in his subtle roar, wondering if the feeling is mutual. The gentle heat travels through my arthritic fingers, and I somehow know, without question, that it matters very little—in the unpredictable brass band of life, Harry and I have carved out our own sweet melody.
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