Sweet singing all in the choir…

… I have been out to the hairdressers today. For a trim.

I am a reluctant client. (Why all the mirrors? I even avoid them at home if possible).
And… All that British politeness, ‘yes, thank you, that’s lovely’…
When no!
It’s far from lovely, you’ve taken inches off when I said ‘tiny trim’.
It’s all lying around my feet now (apart from the bit stuck in my bra).
My soul is grieving.
Please gather it all up and stick it back on, because it took so long to grow and it will take ages to grow it back. And, you’ve chopped off the absolute very exact bit that I was keeping to cover my weird forehead. You knew this… ! (Am I the only one who makes body dysmorphic confessions to the hairdresser?).
And it’s Christmas.
The paper party hat must now stay on until at least Easter.

Oh ok.

I can’t blame the lovely hairdresser entirely. My hair is a cross between Worzel Gummidge and Robert Plant at the best of times. When it grows it eschews gravity and grows out on a horizontal plane, into frizz, and never in a downward direction.

I do envy people who go to the hairdressers in order to come out feeling good/better!

But, no more moaning!
I have hair.
I have much gratitude for that.

And there’s a beautiful dog there who seems to like me.

So… Happy Friday one and all.
The wine forecast is a bit lacking but, sometimes there’s an unpredictability with these forecasts.