Lockdown got to me. At last.
It really was only a matter of time before something happened. Apparently, week six is the week to start with the madness. Which explains nothing because I’m on week seven.
I’ve been pretending I’m coping but today I left myself alone with a mirror, a pair of scissors and a wild impulse and now I have a fringe.
The good news is: my housemate didn’t immediately notice and shriek, “dear GOD, what have you done?” (In fact, she said it looked quite nice and suited me. Win.)
The bad news is: I now have to explain myself to my lovely lovely hairdresser when I see her after lockdown, and she doesn’t deserve this.
It’s just that I couldn’t bear to look at my face in a video call for one minute longer with my shiny five-head (like a forehead, but worse) without something pulling focus. And since I lack the piercing skills of a young Lindsey Lohan in the Parent Trap, or the means by which to pierce my nose, the hair bit it.
I considered going for the full head shave, but we’ve only got a beard trimmer in the house and it would have taken ages. and I wanted my tea because I was hungry.
Also, it is utterly galling to discover your mother is right, and you do look better with a fringe. Bugger.