Haircuts

I have become addicted to getting my hair cut off. I was idly flicking through Facebook pictures earlier, vaguely with the notion of selecting another inaccurate, flattering profile picture. And I noticed my hair changes at least every five or so pictures. Am I really that bored and dissatisfied with myself that I feel the need to change my hair every month? Or is hair change the natural solution for those in on-going emotional turmoil. Either way, it has allowed me to develop a complex: that my current style is positively lesbian. And this gives me concern, as I am very, very straight. The new 'do has the unfortunate side-effect of coating my palms in sticky, gummy styling wax every morning in an effort to make my hair look 'effortless'. Was there ever a more pointless waste of time? What a ridiculous notion, to the point where it gives me actual physical anger. Especially considering my use of said sticky, gummy styling wax happens to coincide around half an hour before my 9am (three times a week, I would shoot whoever is responsible if I could). Gluing viscose product to my hair in an effort to look more appealing? Dear God, getting my hairbrush stuck in my longer hair seems far more preferable. 

In other news, new year, new term, new timetable, old/new friends, new ideas, new dashing around like a crazed lemming. Third year, I understood to be considerably more serious in terms of work. The pressure is on, now that we are all made feel guilty for being at university 'on the cheap'. Government tuition fee rises, wonderful. It has upset my plans for Canada, in fact. One tutor pointed out a Masters in two years might set me back as much as £15,000 - hardly an ideal sum. However, I do not deem the whole situation to be important enough to get on the coach to London for the protests. I would rather go shopping on the King's Road than stand there like an ant amongst thousands, shouting abuse at David Cameron and his fellow gimps up in their ivory tower. I will join the ranks of the unemployed English graduates soon enough..perhaps I'll spurn out dreadful poetry and read it out in seedy bars around the country in an effort to express myself. I'll become a 'creative type', bohemian in outlook until I have kids. Then it'll be my turn to worry about astronomical university fees - £10,000 a year by that point of course, and all because I didn't protest in London all those years ago, and chose to go shopping instead. Shame on me!!

Or maybe I should become unhealthily obsessed with Cold War literature and dedicate the next ten years of my life to English academia, and slowly lose touch with reality. At least if I worked in TV, I wouldn't have quite so much time available to spend with my own thoughts. Perhaps I'll start sleeping properly again once I'm in regular employment. The shock of the conventional 9-5 will just batter my body and mind into slumbering submission. In fact I have actually forgotten what it is not to wake up at 5am naturally, after falling asleep at 2am. Perhaps it explains my increasingly erratic behaviour, such as believing it is entirely normal to eat cereal with water instead of milk, and to wander about in my dressing gown at 5pm on a Friday evening, when I should be 'letting my hair down' at Mosaic or something. But wait, I have no hair to shake down, because it has ALL GONE, of my own accord.  

Perhaps by the time Cameron sees the foolishness of this university fee lark, my hair would have grown back, I would have gotten to the bottom of the enormous pile of shite that constitutes my reading, and I would have regained an appreciation for sleep and sanity.