Fair is foul, foul is fair

2 noteworthy events from yesterday: I got my hair straightened, and I finished reading Wicked... and I did them at the same time. I ate up-- nay, devoured-- page after page of Gregory Maguire's wonderful, wonderful novel as I sat through the tedious process of having my frizzy mane tamed (I blame my mother's genes for giving me accursed wavy hair). They call this new-fangled procedure "hair management", the effects of which lie somewhere between those of rebonding and relaxing, according to the stylist. Since the salon was having a 50% anniversary discount on all services, I took it as a cosmic sign to go ahead and get my messy mop "managed" (I also got a manicure and pedicure while I was at it-- hey, it was 50% off on all services!).

Now I hate time-consuming beauty regimens (especially when smelly chemicals are involved), so it was a good thing I had brought along my copy of Wicked to get me through the afternoon. Wicked is a retelling of the classic tale The Wizard of Oz, this time centering on the Wicked Witch of the West as protagonist rather than antagonist. It was such an enthralling read that I barely flinched whenever the stylist accidentally touched the hair iron to my scalp. If I were asked to write a book review of Wicked, I would fail miserably, because I haven't the words to describe Maguire's mesmerizing masterpiece. I am reduced to a shameful puddle of incoherent ineptitude as I even consider coming close to capturing the powerful prose, inspired imagination, provoking profundity and fiery feeling-- not even emotion or passion, but feeling-- woven together in Wicked. I haven't been attacked by writer envy in so long, but I was positively green (how appropriate) that Maguire could be credited with such a clever, creative, and devastatingly delightful concoction. After I finished the final page I wanted to put down the book and applaud (but I was still at the parlor so I restrained myself). In short, I was bewitched, bothered, bewildered and blown away by Wicked. Bravo.