Pop!

The last time we went to Europe, the fuses on our converters blew out on the tail end of our vacation. We were largely okay with this but my sister, who largely refused to ever step 10 feet out of our house without her hair done and make up on, made the executive decision to either not come out sightseeing with us...or otherwise manage to not be photographed. Like a ghost.

So when I announced that I was going to Europe and taking my new Chi (courtesy of the same little sister), she warned me against it, bringing back up her summer of nappiness. And me, being wonderfully, idiotically vain, ignored her warnings. I figured, hey, that summer of naps happened because we had the wrong converters or we left the irons on too long that they short-circuited. I essentially made excuses because there was no way in hell, heaven or earth that I was going to be walking around Europe looking a hot damn mess just because there was a small (extreme) likelihood of my iron, you know, potentially lighting on fire.

And so, when I rolled out of bed an hour ago and plugged in my converter and my iron, I took every precaution: used a converter, used an adaptor, and ran my hair through it quickly before it had a chance to get too hot before unplugging the entire set and doing it all over again. I figured I was doing okay.

...and then I heard the dreaded pop of doom and turned in the split second that it took to see an actual spark come off my converter.

Yup, my only converter is dead. On the bright side, my iron is just fine...and my hair looks fab. So yay?