Hello people. I am sorry. I am sorry for not writing. We good? No? Okay, here is the thing. I should have written like four posts by the time January came to its middle. I didn’t. Why? 1. I am getting used to a lot of new things between my 9-5. They include matatus whose parts are held together by chomelea and God-knows-what. Those are like two whole blogposts for another day. Or three. Or four, depending on how sensational I am willing to get. 2. I am prioritizing movies over blogging until I get inspired enough since I figure I do too much during the day to come and spend it in front of a laptop again. I watched three movies last week. THREE. Like someone who has nothing to do, except I have more than enough to do. Non-stop was the classic Liam Neeson awesomeness. Blended was so stupid, Adam Sandler stupid, but I cried all the way like a fool. My pillow was soaked at around 1 am, despite the fact that I had felt sleepy and insisted on watching it to the end.
American Sniper. You know what? I thought this movie was going to be awesome, Bradley Cooper awesome. In the end, I watched it for two days, didn’t feel a thing, didn’t Google the story after the credits rolled. You know a movie has impacted me, especially if its based on a true story, when I Google the facts till they run dry. Like I Googled Fury, just to make sure it was pure fiction. Or Lone Survivor, just to make sure it was true. Yeah, American Sniper was disappointing, considering I made my brother buy it. Hopefully, the rest of the Best Picture nominees are not disappointing. Or maybe I am shallow. Maybe. Benedict Cumberbatch, don’t let me down when I find you. Bradley Cooper, no love lost.
Anyway, let’s forget about my movie hunks. This next part was typed on my phone.
I’m typing this under a dryer. I came here to get a pixie cut. I can see my hair all over the floor. I’m not sure it’s as short as I want it to be at the back since my hairdresser was reluctant to cutting it in the first place.
I stormed in here with the psyche of a four-year-old who wants a piece of the what the adults are having. I have wanted a pixie cut for years but never had the guts for it. Since Sophie Ikenye days. I always thought it would make me old. Now I don’t have to worry about that anymore. I have white hair for crying out loud. Plus half the people I meet when I go out with my sister think she’s my baby. Thank you very much, Kenyans. Like I needed a sign to confirm that my dressing does not change the fact that I look like I am in my mid twenties. Anyway, everyone in the house is against the idea. The pixie idea. Basically everyone I know is against it save for one or two close friends. But this is my hair, not theirs. My hair, my choice. Only I know how annoying it is to have to spread your bed every morning while brushing strands of hair off the sheets. (Yes, I have spread my bed every morning before I commute to work for some years now. Ufala ya teenage laziness niliacha.) Shiku alone knows how heartbreaking it is to comb hair and leave strands of hair all over the tiled floor. Actually, 99% of the dirt in my bedroom comes from my hair. Sigh.
I hope by cutting it halfway first, I’ll get the strength to cut it completely, cut it until it acknowledges that I can live without it. That I can rock a bald head from here to Githunguri and not feel insecure. The other day I stumbled upon this article in the Eve Woman issue about a lady who had to go bald with menopause. She had this art on her head, all smiles and so confident, I truly envied her. As confident as those oblivious Kikuyu women in photos taken by European visitors back in the day. Oh this hair will be the end of me.
My colleague has really nice hair. She’s white. She wakes up on random mornings with her hair looking so beautiful, I have to tell her. And you know how bad I am at starting conversations with new people. But I make an effort, just for hair. Lol. I even explained to her how weaves are done. Learning curve.
Anyway, I’ll be back when I see myself in the mirror.
So I saw myself, after my hairdresser did the customary lift-mirror-behind-customer routine. She did not cut it as short as I wanted. I knew it! So it’s not even a pixie cut yet. So we will have to cut it further next time. And dye it. Si I am feeling gutsy! A round of applause please. At the moment, no one really notices I cut my hair until I tell them. That’s a good sign. Mr and Mrs Kimori engineered a bright girl. Lol.
So, there you have it. Hair is just dead cells. So the next time you see me without hair, don’t ask what happened. I cut it. I don’t miss it. Everyone said I would but I don’t. All those tales you girls tell me about plaiting my hair to regain its strength, I am not listening to them any more. A point comes when you have to try what works for you and you alone.
Stay tuned. The hair diaries will continue the next time I am hormonal, with these zits jutting out of my face like there is no tomorrow. If I didn’t type this, I’d have spent those minutes popping them. You know how tempting it is to pop a pimple? If you don’t, thank God for your smooth skin.
PS: If you have ever had a problem viewing this blog on your Opera Mini after clicking the link on Facebook, kindly, if you still experience the ‘favicon.ico’ problem, tell me. See me on those dusty Kikuyu streets, tell me. Find me making noise on Twitter on a good day, niambie. See my green light on on Hangouts, give me a shout. Seriously. That’s why I have reverted to the default look. Sucks, right? Yeah, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.