At the hairdresser

Every second month I drag myself to the hairdresser who makes me look like a natural blond (then I don’t have to explain why I am so stupid, I can just refer to my hair colour). Today my hairdresser was an incredibly slow and irritatingly insecure girl; I don’t feel that comfortable letting an insecure person to fix my hair. It is like having a by pass operation by a med student who only has read about it in the books. In an attempt not to become rude, I had to ignore her totally, there was no small talk of what so ever from my part.

Instead I was deeply buried in a Michel Houellebecq book. Houellebecq’s cynicism and his apparent unsolved women issues were like a hard punch on my face. I am romantic; I believe in love, I believe in beautiful erotic relations, I believe in Tolstoy, Pushkin, Jane Austen and Emily Brontë. I choose to believe in the beautiful in life, and I am sure that the day Houellebecq really falls in love (or gets over losing the love of his life?), he will write differently.

Three hours later, totally depressed after reading my book (even there were also quite a few laughs), I looked at the hairdresser’s result in the mirror. Why on earth do they always insist flattening my naturally flat hair even more? If I looked good with totally flat hair, had God given me curls. That's the way He works.