Random bullets of surprise

(1) So, since the middle of the year when I had the Mane of Insanity™ cut into a more manageable shoulder-length 'do, I've been gingerly stepping toward my long-planned abandonment of Long Hair. Yesterday I got it cut and I was thinking about other things and then I spent the evening at a party in London, and this morning I got up and saw myself in the mirror and ... wa-hey! I have short hair! Flippy, shoulder-clearing short hair! Gads. The relief. I feel my codependency lapsing a little, but possibly only because I think my hair currently approves of me. If it could speak it would say "Yes, very nice. Edgy, yet age-appropriate. Also, your My Giant Mane of Hair is Me syndrome was getting on my nerves. And in conclusion, the Sebastian Evocatív Crafty styling paste is the bomb. No, don't tell me what it costs, I care only for funky broken-up lines and touchability."

(2) At aforementioned party, I injured my ear. Seriously. I slammed it accidentally into a high-mounted wrought-iron bannister in the Cheshire Cheese. This is currently runner-up in my hall of fame All Time Stupidest Injuries. The Stupid Injury is distinguished not only by the neuronally-challenged circumstances under which it was sustained, but also by how mind-bendingly regularly the injury reminds you of same. The record is currently held by the burn incident involving the keyboard-essential pad of my third left finger, my ceramic hair straighteners and the phone ringing at an inopportune moment. My pinnae are not used for typing, for which we are thankful, but they do perform crucial duties related to propping up hair when placed with stereotypical push-behind-the-ear movement deployed by one million Method actresses trying to convey nerves or concentration. New Flippy Do™ requires intensive repetition of same. Slight microexcruciate every time. But worse, mental YouTube ... 14th century stone steps. Lulu wedge heels. Careful negotiation of first step ... slam!

Cringe.

Hair

I had my hair cut. I used to have a very great deal of hair, and now I have considerably less, but the difference isn't particularly notable even so. Next time, I want to have it cut shorter. Which is weird because I'm conflicted about the loss of my hair right now, so god knows how I think cutting it shorter will help. But I know it will.

The reason that it's not shorter right now is that My Hair Guy™ thought that my hair needed to be in better condition so that I don't end up looking like a prettily coiffed head of frizz and split ends. So now I have this tub of hilariously expensive ceramide-whatsit-restructurobollocks which I am supposed to be massaging into my neglected follicles twice a week.

Twice a week?

I just don't have time for this. Note to anyone who might ask me out: I'm never washing my hair. If I utter this, it is truly the euphemism you think it is.

Which is not to say that I never wash it, you understand. Just that I'm never doing it when I could, say, sleep. Or kiss.