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…