A very bad hairday
Hair; important, essential, a matter of life and death.
So, I go to the hairdresser, like I do wherever I live, and it takes time
to find someone to trust with my hair. My man goes insane. I cry, scream,
throw things, lock myself in the bathroom afterwards.
Oh well, I´m a woman, that´s my excuse.
One day I have a really bad hairday. I go to a hairdresser I´ve tried a few times,
promising… 7 and a halv minutes later I´done. Big hair, no excuse, hiding
the tears. Get into car, tell boyfriend; drive fast to next hairdresser.
She is portuguese, still likes hairdryers but good at minimising big hair,
he explains with rolling eyes that I don´t want to look like a mop or a
russian whore. I could explain it to her, but usually she cuts what
I say not to cut. So my man explains. And I´m semi happy and exhausted.
I still remember the 80´s even if I´m trying not too…