I'm sixteen... going on eighty (la, la, la, la, la)‏

After my jam-packed birthday (considering that this year we were more than our usual three people – my husband, our aunt and me), my week passed by with “non-worthy to comment” incidents.

One would expect that being a business woman would add excitement to your life experience, but other than some highway crashes and some heavy rain, my days went by in a soothing mode.

Yesterday was my haircut day. I have one of those every five to six months because I can’t possibly fit that tedious task in my schedule.

Don’t get me wrong, I love to be pampered by experienced hair dressers and their top-of-the-line shampoos, but it pains me (and my wallet) to pay more than forty bucks to get my tips cut.

But after almost six months without stepping under the scissors, I decided that my hair needed a strong rejuvenating treatment.

As you might already guessed, I don’t know many salons, I don’t have a preferred hair dresser nor I care if he’s recommended or not. I just want to go in and out of the place as fast as I can, because to put it mildly, I get really bored with insignificant chit-chat while someone has scissors in their hands and I’m concentrating not to snatched them and beg him/her to please pay attention!! It’s my head we’re talking about!!

(Another Taurus perk that comes with the horoscope: we always want to control everything around us).

While Israel (the hairdresser’s nickname… even thou he’s Russian and his real name is Boris) was manning the scissors, chit chatting away and cutting my hair, I was holding my breath and counting to a thousand so I wouldn’t snap at him.

He did a good job, I’ll give him that… the only inconvenience arrived when out of nowhere he started analysing my hair, its strands and roots, if it was wavy, dyed, etc. and with pin-point eyes he grabbed a WHITE HAIR….

Do you know how difficult it is to find a WHITE HAIR in a blonde’s head?

My first white hair and I have the awful luck that it was found by other person without giving me the possibility to cut it from root before someone (other than me) knows that I’m stepping out of young, into ancient.

I’m 26 years old, one white hair (reported found, who knows how many more do I have up there) and have four more years to prepare for full decrepitude.

30, here I come.

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