In the vanity department, Mark was supposed to drive me down to town so I could bleach my hair, but I’m not sure that I want to bleach it. What I do want to do is to straighten my hair because, unfortunately, when my hair starts to grow and I don’t have chemicals at hand, it becomes curly. My hair should be straight, spiky, and wicked. Not floppy and curly.
I only went to the hair-dresser a week or so ago, and it already feels like my hair has grown half an inch. It can’t be that bad, or by the time I’m thirty I will be so much the gorilla. Genetics should preclude such a sad fate, though, and I will not be a hairy-back type of person. But the hair on my head seems to grow at an alarming rate.
But with genetics and science you never know. Maybe I will be bald, and have a foot of back-hair in ten years time. If so, I will have to quit this world, or join the circus so that I can travel around and display my monstrosity.
Mark says he will devote his scientific career to find a cure. When we get the medieval castle he can be like Dr Frankenstein, and I can be the monster. As long as he doesn’t try to create a wife for me, we should be fine. I will look quite dashing when the local villagers come with pitch-forks and torches to root out the wickedness of our castle. I.e. us. I will growl, and my back-hair will be like a peacock’s feather. Unless it catches fire. I don’t want that to happen.
Since we were supposed to go down-town, but didn’t because we’re lazy, I have time to reason myself into not bleaching my hair. Or reason myself into doing it. I’ve tried it before and wasn’t too happy with it, but have convinced myself that it was the technical execution that faltered, not the innate aesthetics of the thing.
For now he’s thrown up his hands, and said ‘Decide already!’, and has gone to watch the telly. Well, he did that a couple of hour ago, and I’m still nowhere near a decision (or to leave for anywhere) – because of that lazy thing. So, I’ll put it off until tomorrow. It’s not like I had an appointment or anything.
Oh, and my face is turning pizza again. I’ll start to cry soon. I’m vain like that.