I just went to the hairdressers. This is quite an accomplishment considering it’s been a whole year since I last did this. And for anyone who has seen me recently you will know that my hair is long enough to dust my crack. It’s been severely out of control for longer than I can remember but when a haircut costs me £31, there has been so many other things I would rather have spent my money on (skirts that are too small and CDs I will never listen to for example) so when my mum paid for it upfront I had no choice but to go get my savage locks cut. I was very excited because I love my hair being messed with (is it possible to have G spot on your head, just behind the ears??) so I made myself as respectable as I could (well hello, with all those mirrors and vastly open windows anyone could have seen me) and headed to heaven. Trying to walk at a reasonable speed with a tight skirt and slippers on is quite a task by the way and for any girlies amongst you, you will know what I am talking about. Finally I hitched my skirt up, walked in socks and made it to the salon, perspiring and smelling like slaughtered cow. Oh it was worth 365 day wait. The only thing I hate about going to the hairdressers however is the fact that they wash your hair all good, leave you smelling so clean and then prop you up in a chair in full view of the street with your hair slicked back and piled on top of your head in a Patsy Stone kind of fashion so all the passing grannies and skanks get to see you at your worst and looking like you have most certainly not stepped out of a salon. A good few inches were removed, I got a years worth of chat (even managing to slip my new lady into conversation through a huge beamer) and was more than satisfied with the results. She then proceeded to straighten my frizzy matter with the ultimate straightners and when I questioned, ‘should my hair be smoking?’ she gaily replied, ‘hell it aint that good for your hair but what’s a few frazzled ends for an hour of beauty?’ Fair enough. And to keep it sleeker for more than five minutes she sprayed so much pink glittery hairspray (oh they know me so well) that when I sparked a much needed (almost post-coital) fag, my whole head went up in flames. Oh the price you pay for looking glamorous. It’s only a shame I’m not a sexy movie star because then I may be able to pull off my straighter-than-Gwyenth hair but hell, if I blank out the face, imagine my body clad in a D&G number then actually, it’s still nowhere near. I know that by the time I face the winds of Aberdeen to go to work (where the hair will be ruined anyway by my ever so unsophisticated red jumper) my hair will be back to its usual larger than life standard and I will whip it back into the silly fashion I usually wear it. Oh to not have hair that’s thicker than a tough turd. Oh to be a glamorous movie star. And oh to just revel in my pretty hair for just 30 seconds more and be happy for once. *sigh*
Oh and it is now three weeks till love comes home. Life is all good.