A Hole in The Head

Yesterday, in a fit of wig-discontent, I bought a new one. Shorter this time so there will be no need to hack it. The old one, the very old one, the one I had worn for about half a year, was looking tired. I had pulled too much of its hair out. So, now - I look like a chestnut version of Myra Hindley. This does not bother me in the least. My darling ex-boyfriend avers that I look like the Queen in her younger days. I am rather pleased with the overall effect with my black sequined hairband nuzzle-ing over my chestnut waves - even if I do say so myself.

I also pusuaded my mother to buy some pretty pretty star stickers - in order to record any days during which I a good girl.

That evening I pulled my hair out - of course I did, I have an awful lot of university work to do and my love-life/love-death is a delighful and undelightful farce. Moliere could have done a lot with it. These things/non-things conspire to increase the generally panic-stricken nature of my personality. So there is now a displeasing gap in the natural, scarce, dark-gold-coloured hair on one side of my head. Oh dear oh dear.

Today? I only woke a few hours ago. But I have been good. I think it is perhaps a matter of enviroment. When I live with my ex-boyfriends - let's just say, much as I like him, his enviroment is notideal for me. Here at my mother's it is quiet. I have my own room. I have peace and solitude and the importance of those cannot be overestimated.