D-Day

I am shitting bricks.

How are you?

No really, please tell me what is cooking in your own lives to help me avoid thinking about bricks and the shitting thereof.


P.S. I thought for your voyeristic pleasure I would just inform you that I have been BOBBED. I am not happy about it.

I am a tomboy (read slob. A slob with a bob?) through and through and care very little for hair and nails and clothes and blah. This does not mean that I am not vain, I am exceedingly so, it just manifests itself in less obvious ways.

I have had my hair the same way for ages now. Not by intention. Just that every time I go to the hairdressers, I say the same thing: "I have no idea, I like lots of layers and lengths, preferably shoulder length or just above".

And this seems to translate to exactly the same thing no matter where I get my hair cut. This time for some unfathomable reason I ever so slightly changed it to say "I don't mind if it is slightly shorter than shoulder length" which I took to mean the same as before.

But apparently in hairdresser language, this means BOB!

I hate bobs, I look horrendous in them, and they are such high maintenance. Long hair is great because you can just tie it up and that is that. For me a bob means one thing: mushroom.

I don't appreciate looking like a forest fungus. No good for my credibility. Oi, I can hear you murmuring, "what credi...". I have some. It is just hiding for now. Behind my toadstool head.

I am aware that for a person who professes to care nothing about hair, I have managed to write a lengthy post about my hair. My talents are many and vast.