There’s plenty to say, but I’d prefer to leave on this long journey with the authorial, fiction writer’s voice in the drivers’ seat. Rather than the diarist. Today’s happenstances feel like fluff in the wind. The energy of going on these trips will wipe them all out of any lasting importance. I should sit down and write properly. I should fix my chair. But really, I am going to finish this post and then wash the pots and pans. Because that’s just polite, I think, for the house sitters and goodness knows when I return in nine years time, I’m not going to want to do them then, either. The plan is to load the phone with some music and podcasts for the journey and I have a little chocolate for further motivation. There’s so much that isn’t done, but it doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter that I had to turn around after getting my hair gloriously bleached and empinkened and go back to work and then halfway there, be texted and told, nah, it’s not quite so critical as we thought. Deep, heaving sigh. But I kept going and I did the job I had to do because I’ll be gone for a millennia or two so I thought I wanted to at least start it off without having destroyed the universe, and then shot out of there and got pizza with the sauce that tastes of actual crushed tomatoes and took selfies of the hair. In the restaurant. I was behind a wall, though, so nobody could see me doing it. I felt…well, I felt alright. The color is done in such a way that it its just hidden enough so I can put it behind the blonde and not look so punkish.
Not that I think pink is a disrespectful color, I just don’t want to draw…that’s such an egotistical, not that I think I would…it’s just, this is my grandfather’s funeral. I don’t want anything to detract or distract from that. But I know he’d approve of my reasons for getting it. You spend long enough being entirely invisible in life…getting to the point where you don’t care if you stand out, well, that’s a victory. I have also, always, always, thought about magical colored hair since I was a little girl. I used to want strawberry streaks and sort of a caramel vanilla swirly base (this was how I thought of it – to have a head full of candy) and I convinced myself that would never be.
Today, the hairdresser said “Do you have a boyfriend?” I said “No.” She said, “Well, I’m pretty sure we’re gonna get you one with this hair. It screams fun.”
I like her a lot. But that’s a visual.
As for other news that won’t go down in history, but just for today feels eternal….
The one I like in the group, well, he thinks I’m pretty. Or in one particular picture which I took an hour or so ago with the nicely cut hair and the aut0-makeup button toggled on. That’s a thing. I don’t, yeah, I don’t know. I don’t…it is just sitting at the end of the bed, that thought, and looking at me.
I like that thought, sweet as a kitten. I’ll be sad when it wanders off.