I got a haircut yesterday. It was hugely stressful. As always I was left franticly pawing through magazines right up until I was called, like I was cramming for some test. And then I ended up choking out the hairdresser’s most despised word, ‘trim’. Holy fuck. You may think I overreact. You do, yeah? Well take a look at this, dicks:
I know what you’re going to say. ‘Lucy, did your parents, like, force the female gender on you?' Pish, I say to that. My hair was kept mulleted until age seven. Not everyone is a good-looking child. At least I got smarts. Stop laughing, you at the back. I know your mother. Hence extreme grief and anxiety at all haircutting events.
Swansea was lovely by the way, thank you for asking. I would have photos to show but I left my camera on the top of the fag machine in a nightclub called Jumping Jacks or something while the bouncer was yelling at us to get out and we had lost Marie and it was 3am. Fun and games. And I was temping all last week in Jenny's office answering phones and generally fucking things up. When one is busy losing people's messages and misfiling things and breaking photocopiers, there is simply no time for blogging. Priorities, friends.