Last week I was in the living room with Bertie and suddenly I felt like cutting my hair and I did it. I knew it was wrong and stupid and I shouldn't do it but I still did it and please don't get me started on things I feel like doing even though I know they're wrong and stupid things to do, and end up doing all the same. This post is about the new hair cut that resulted from the possessment moment.
I knew there was something awkward with it from the start but couldn't really put my finger on it until this week-end in Berlin, when people repeatedly asked me whether I intended to try and get into Leeds once I'd be done with high school, and tried to give me half-price tickets to the Cindy Sherman exhibition. Mind you, could've been worse: they could've refused to sell me wine or expressed worries that the content of the exhibition was going to be too explicit.
So this is it: the new hair cut makes me look underage. 16 and a half, more precisely. And now if you'll excuse me, I've got to write that paper about how the beauty market is now all about rejuvenation.
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