Monthly Archives: April 2013


i thought so

thought so!

Things are cool now between myself and that once-awful place I fleetingly described in yesterday’s post. The building still stands, the occupants still live and my hair has returned to a standard of appreciable coolness, which has altered my opinion of the salon. At precisely 10am this morning (because the salon only opens at that time on a Monday, not at 9am, like I thought), I called to make a complaint regarding the horrible haircut they gave me at the weekend and found my caffeine-fuelled anger dwindling from the instant they answered the phone. Explaining that my haircut had not made me happy, leaving my hair all greasy and looking downright awful, the stylist on the other line advised me to return for a style adjustment later this afternoon. As aforementioned, I would be taking no less than a refund for the poor cut received or a re-style free of charge by a different, more competent stylist. Well, all things considered, I settled on the latter and booked an appointment straight after work.

And my experience improved from the moment I got there. The stylist taking over informed me that my hair had reacted to some of the products being used in the salon, possibly clashing with ones I had also used at home; therefore she suggested using products without silicone included, such as Head and Shoulders, as a means of reducing the build-up which had led to the greasy, matted effect I witnessed there on Saturday. Additionally, she consulted me on the photos I brought and talked me through the haircut, making sure I was confident of the length I wanted cut off since it was obvious from my previous visit that I wasn’t entirely certain how short I really wanted it. In the end, she showed me the results of an hour’s snipping, and what an improvement it was, compared to that horrible haircut from Saturday gone! I liked the outcome, I really did, and though the ends weren’t razored as sharply as expected, that minor oversight was enough to excuse the latest wrong to my sacred hair, restoring my faith in a salon I was prepared to black list for life.

I departed the place with a smile and returned home to some teasing from my boyfriend, who laughingly observed that my hairstyle made me look like “a clever Asian boy”. Well… cheers. I totally needed that. I totally need people thinking I’m a clever Asian boy. But I feel so much better now, you wouldn’t believe it! And a little bit guilty as well that I cheated on my stylist in such a roundabout fashion. I kind of respect that other salon for trying their best to win me back. If I’m honest, they have actually succeeded (for the second time, as well!), and it makes me feel like it’s safe to cheat on my stylist again, providing the two of us have fallen out for good. So, uh, let’s hope that my stylist doesn’t notice, when I eventually visit this year, that a different person has cut my hair in her absence.

who is a what now?

clever asian boy, huh?


bad hair day


if you don’t mind me saying

Never cheat on your stylist. If you find a stylist you like, who understands your description of any hairstyle required, then embrace that person in a vice-like grip and never be tempted to ever go and find a new stylist to replace them. You have been told this several times, and twice now, you have failed to learn the errors of your ways!

Guilty as charged: for the second time in 6 months, I have cheated on my stylist and have come to regret the whole matter with a guilt so intense not even vodka laced with moonshine could define the strength of my guilt. She cuts my hair how I like it, exactly how I like it, and yet I sometimes feel like I’m no longer special, like my custom is nothing to her if she keeps on cutting my hair.

So I went to other stylists and predictably received the most awful of haircuts. The first instance, I cannot remember; it isn’t really important now the second instance has happened. Imagine, if you will, a haircut so crude that it brings back the 90s and reminds you of that hairstyle worn primarily by the likes of Nick Carter from the Backstreet Boys and all those other boy bands with straight, floppy hair. (Yes, it was that fucking bad!!!)

Telling you now, the moment I pick that phone up at precisely 9am, a head will be rolling in that salon I went to on Saturday. I’ll be looking for a refund, no less than a total refund; such is my derision for that stylist who fatally ruined my barnett – in time for Monday, no less! Of course, should they offer a different stylist to rectify the damage at no extra cost (one who actually knows what the fuck they are doing), then I may be persuaded to let the incident go…

we shall see

we shall see

there’s no place like home

how the hell should i know

More or less the sound of internal dilemma. I’ve been thinking about my future, you see, and this feeling I have about travelling elsewhere has finally come to a head; to the point where leaving this country for a different one has gripped my imagination. For the past few weeks, my mind has been haunted by the prospect of working in Australia and going over there for a year at least, before I get too old, as I’ve reached this edge in my life where doing what is safe is no longer kidding me.

Let’s face it: I’m not convinced that being in a job which doesn’t inspire me is how I should be spending the rest of my twenties. When I was made redundant from the Night Shift, there was this flicker of instinct urging me to go, to leave the Emerald Isle for another opportunity, but I just didn’t take it. I’m risk-adverse; I have an aversion to risk. And it’s down to the fact that leaving these pleasantly mundane yet convenient shores may result in a tragic downfall that could possibly embarrass me until the end of my life. I mean, come on, nobody wants egg on their face, not if they can help it, so if packing my bags and hitting the land of Australia should drain all my money and leave me practically penniless and homeless to boot, then whose fault is that, exactly? All mine, they would say.

And my other half isn’t as hot on the plan as me, though I wouldn’t really blame him: he’s even worse than I am when it comes to taking a risk. Since the recession struck the year he finished uni, his ability to secure any steady, meaningful employment has not been very good and he’s scared that leaving the only job he has (freelance, and only part-time, at that) could mean he might never get a job again, regardless of Australia or any other country. Many have scoffed at his lack of confidence and indecision, and have even done this in front of me, as I grit my teeth with a smile (fucking remember who you’re talking to!), but society has raised men to always believe they’ll get a job, that the woman needn’t worry, that he’ll always provide for her needs. Alas, how times have changed and so have the women, willing or no. Nowadays, you’re more likely to bump into a man being supported by his girlfriend or a partner earning way more than he does, so it’s pretty hard to ignore the source of low male esteem. Not only have the women had their fairy tales shattered by the great financial drain, but men have also lost their “purpose” in the traditional sense, and no man wants to feel like they can’t be proud or worth something.

So I’m hoping that he’ll come around, that I won’t have to leave here without him. Because I shall. I shall have to leave. I can’t stay in this place any longer. I’m done with this place and I need to move on. I have the money, but the timing… it’s always the timing! I’m supposed to finish German this summer and supplement my qualifications with yet another exam so I can further trap myself in the coffin that is “finance” – but I’m not even sure if I’ll ever come back to this country and use that qualification. I try not to revisit a place where I once lived. There’s just a sadness about it, like you’re going back in time, reversing all the progress you’ve made in your life. I know other people view such visitations differently, but I certainly don’t. I’m still twenty-something. My mind’s still tatty and shit from all the angst. I have to move on!

"fish for you thought?"

“then you’re hit by a stone”


somebody hates me


Okay, okay, perhaps I’m not that paranoid, but there’s a cold breeze blowing somewhere here in the office and it ain’t from that window, I’m telling you now! Having spent the afternoon feeling bored and running out of ways to convince other people I’m busy (ha!), I decided to browse the shared folders for my own department and came across some emails relating to myself. A manager disputing assessments, no big deal, part and parcel, happens all the time, but when the same bloody person is sending emails about you, asking if they need to sit down and “chat” with your manager because they believe you’re somehow out to get them, then that’s a different kettle of fish, am I right?

But who is this manager, anyway? Have I ever seen his face or spoken to him on the phone? It’s kind of creepy knowing that someone you can’t remember has assumed you’re at war over stupid performance assessments. But Jesus, who is he? Is he handsome at all? He better be handsome! I can’t have a hater if they aren’t good-looking, you know…