So today I had to make one of the biggest decisions of the month and seeing as we’re only on the 6th of April it seems next month has a lot to live up to. Either way the panic was as followed: what colour to dye me hair?
Now this may seem like a highly irrelevant and typically female thing to say, but in a world full of deadlines and pressure, taking three hours out to have a haircut is possibly one of the most rewarding things a woman can do. In short it can elevate life as a whole, or leave you very bald.
For some reason, aside the fact that my decision making skills are rubbish at the best of times, the dilemma was my head saying make me blonde and my brain saying make me brown. So after some strenuous hair colour samples we (my extremely talented hair dresser and i) went for something inbetween.
Now why my brain and my head couldn’t coordinate together and come up with that solution is beyond me, but nevertheless I spent three hours sitting in a shop, rapidly losing feeling in my butt, getting high off the colour solution and resembling a very realistic plastic palm tree.
The most heartfelt moment was having to cut a few inches off the ends to make up for the abuse my GHD’s had created, and when you are trying to grow hair that grows on a scale of an inch every four months, it is not a nice experience to see it all surrounding your feet.
Guys that is the equivalent of trying to grow a beard because you think it looks good and (after months of odd looks from various family members) you get some form of spot, or facial fungal infection and have to shave the whole thing off.
But it was not all doom and gloom, whilst I was being yanked, dyed and plasticated, there were two other women also in the same shop. Now you have to bear in mind this hairdressers is quite small, friendly, family appealing and was at the time only occupied by women; so what better conversation for them to strike up than childbirth.
Now… being a courageous future journalist (*cough), woman of the world, stiletto wearing, recently blonde-ish, man-eater; childbirth is the LAST thing I want to hear about.
In short, one night of incredibly hot sex is followed by nine months of a see food diet, acceptance that your boobs are going to double in size and then the eventual popping out of a miniature version of you. That is how it goes and until the fortunate time such an occasion has to take place the subject is dropped.
So that was the end to a productive day of dissertation work, that left me begging for my innocence and wanting to pull together the collection of hair on the floor and run off.
Suddenly I felt less inclined to discuss anything remotely graphic with one of my friends, who as fate would have it, is expecting the arrival of her little girl within the fortnight. I know nature is a wonderful thing, but could quite happily settle for another dissertation rather than having to hear about the workings of a womans womb!
Right, now back to the hard stuff…
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
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