the hairbrush saga

I am rich in friends—and in hairbrushes. Thank you to all the card-senders, Facebook wellwishers, in-person celebrants and Zoomers for a swell 70th. And thanks to my ex-husband for the hairbrush. 

Some of you may be wondering what the deal with the hairbrush is. Well, I was in Mongolia, on the eighth floor of a hotel, when I smelled fire. The photographer I was traveling with methodically soaked towels in the sink to cover her mouth, knocked on all the doors on our floor to make sure people were out, packed up her cameras and chargers, passport and money and prepared to evacuate.

I grabbed my hairbrush and fled, incontinent, down the stairs.

There were two stairwells, and I picked the one full of smoke. Several fights down, I heard a voice echoing. "Dowling! Where are you going?"

Sigh. Fortunately I now have spares.