In transit (1)

Everybody at home wanted me to trim–nay, tame–my curly locks (my family had very narrow notions of what’s beautiful), so once again I gave in to parental pressure and grudgingly went to the salon.  My glorious mane went from a luscious Jon Snow to a curt Robb Stark over the weekend.

I was almost in tears as the hairdresser murderously snipped at my curls. It took me several months, a few hundred bucks, and tons of conditioner to get that summer hair, and when they fell, lock by lock, I felt like I was loosing a lot more than just clumps of keratin.

But a new haircut always makes me feel fresh, and I welcomed the week with a lot more enthusiasm than my office mate and good friend Lyn*, who, for the past few days, has been vacillating between resigning and staying. She’s getting fed up by our boss, who, like most bosses, can be both nice and nasty.

Truth be told, there are a million things I’d like to say about our boss, too. But she hasn’t been hard on me so far, and unlike my friend, I don’t feel like I should quit so soon just because she’s raised her voice at us a few times.

I know I should be referencing to The Devil Wears Prada now, but, until now, I still haven’t seen the film!

From Jon Snow to Robb Stark. My hair would probably sit well with the denizens of Winterfell.

From Jon Snow to Robb Stark. My hair would probably sit well with Ned Stark’s children.

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