So I did the thing that women always do in a crisis: I changed my hairstyle.
I’ve also changed my hairdresser. Doing these two things in tandem is a high-risk strategy at the best of times. At this time in particular, I’m under a significant amount of stress and therefore entirely unqualified to take even minor decisions like Galaxy or Dairy Milk. Undeterred, I decided to become a new woman. Well, the same woman as before but with better hair.
“Is it a wig?” asked the Tweenager. Concerned as I am about her, I still felt it appropriate to make a sour face and ignore her.
“Woah” said the Teenager. “Whoah what?” “Nothing. Just woah”.
I’m not sure they like it.
So not I’m not sure I like it either, even though I was really pleased when it was just done. I’ll tell you tomorrow whether it’s turning out ok. And if not, since I’m feeling rather unhinged from stress, I can always do a Britney. Not in the serial-marriages-live-in-a-trailer sense. Nor in the look-amazing-in-school-uniform-number-one-hit sense. Or even the sexy-air-hostess-toxic sense. Just the head-shaving part. Britney, Sinead O’Connor and me. Now where was that strait-jacket?
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