Still Hot Hand Fan

Still Hot. Still Here. Still Not Sorry.

The big birthday arrived with a stack of assumptions attached, and one of them was that this was the part where everything got smaller. Bless every one of them. The date came, the date went, and you have gotten hotter every year since, in every sense the word has ever had.

Hot flash? Or just accurate? Yes.

Metallic gold lettering on a deep forest green, dark as good pine until the light finds it and every letter turns molten. The gold is what people register about half a second before they finish underestimating you.

Already in the bag before you needed it

16.5 inches open, 9 closed. It lives in whatever bag you grabbed on the way out, and by the time your internal weather turns, it is already open in your hand.

The receipts, since somebody always asks

FSC certified wood, 75% recycled cotton and polyester.

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Conference rooms with sealed windows and a thermostat set by a colleague who runs cold. Milestone birthdays with a number you have no intention of whispering. The person who hears how long you have been doing this and adjusts their volume, their vocabulary and their expectations, all three of them wrong. August afternoons when your body picks a temperature and does not consult you about it. And anyone who has been told, kindly, that this particular chapter is winding down now, and who has every intention of seeing the whole sequel through with a fan in her hand and the heat under management.

Velvet pouch included.

Stay cool. Stay fabulous. Stay exactly as hot as you already are.