Depending on whether you live in a cave or not, this may or may not come as a shock. It started as a bluff. Everyday I’d wake up and joke about it. I’d comb my hair different just to see what people would say. During the combing, half my hair would fall to the floor of my bedroom. It was just sad. A visit to the salon would make me feel stupid. Nothing would change despite leaving money behind with the hairdresser. The pixie cut lost its form. A colleague asked me if I go to the salon at all because it looked bad. And that was the end of me and that pixie, in my head. Everyone thought I didn’t care about my hair. That was bad. I stopped going to the salon. I would wash am treat my hair myself at home, contemplating my next move.

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.