Regrets, I've had a few

I got my hair cut yesterday. (Pauses to marshal reserves of strength.) Hair causes people (eg.) all sorts of problems, but other people only think they have problems - they don’t have my hair! And I don’t have much of it now either, since yesterday.

The problem started like this: several decades ago I was born. (In my current state of queasiness, it would be appropriate to stop right there - end of story - but let’s plod along, shall we?) My hair was thick, unruly and stubborn. It has continued to be thick, unruly and stubborn ever since, accompanied by a rather alarming change in colour. For the last few years I let it grow and just tied it back every day, hoping it would look at worst only boring, and not shockingly so. And in my more optimistic moments I thought it’d look like I was just too damn cool to worry about hair, and it would thus look intriguingly boring. However yesterday this optimism took a turn: why not visit the hairdresser who had wrought a miracle on the head of someone I know, trusting that she could deliver my head also to a gorgeous future?

Can I say right here and now: optimism - unless restrained by good judgement - is never a good idea where hair is concerned. (Why does hindsight always arrive too late to be useful? Why? Tell me!)

Most of my hair was hacked off and I’m now several kilograms lighter. That was the good part. The bad part was that now my stupid head looks stupid. And not only, but also: really stupid, tragically insipid, and the personification of disappointment. No, really. No, really!

And before I wander off, who’s the sadist who invented lovely red wine, then, hmm? Several of my brain cells were rounded up and shot at dawn. Several more were killed by shock, reacting to the sight in the mirror this morning. It’s just a battlefield in there. Bloody hell.