Or, better yet, poufiness. It had better be, because my hair iron just kicked the bucket, loudly and violently, miraculously harming neither me nor my apartment. I don't care if hair irons are the tool needed to lure wealthy men. Mine just exploded. I had not seen something explode like this since I plugged an alarm clock in in my dorm room in Paris (duly noting the advice not to plug in a hairdryer, but not making the connection) only to wake up a couple moments after. This latest event has inspired me to become a low-maintenance hippie and embrace the neither-curly-nor-straight hair that Nature intended. Or to consider buying another, less volatile hair-taming device.