Sustained Criticism

Again, it seems, as I do something to my hair it turns fashionable. As I am going blonder (not blonde yet, blonder), golden blonde is all the rage of the winter season. Headdesk, anyone? People are taking my change of hair weirdly, most compliment me on it (would they dare to do otherwise?), but those that did not know I was blonde to begin with generally take it as an afront to my individuality. I certainly get that there are enough blondes around as is, but come on, I am blonde by right. And really, I can be just as individual blonde as dark-haired.

This transition went more smoothly, oddly enough. I spent months jumping at my hair in the mirror after dying it black, and the blonde I am perfectly fine with after an impressive three days. It is, however, dry and a bit brittle. And I am growing it into a slight a-cut, if my hair-dresser does not change her mind and all turns out well.

And Vigdis has had a stroke of genious over the holidays: since I have so much time on my hands, if one of the other two can't make it to a lecture, I am to make notes and be their mentor. I am no teacher, I dislike one of my prospective students, my notes make no sense to anyone but me and I do not look particularly forward to braving a lecture on my own. Brilliance, I bow in thy presence!

I'm approaching flabbergasted, again. It seems elbow-length gloves are in. Feminine, sophisticated, dark colours, gray, high heels, pale skin, red lips, dark eyes are all in. Lace-up boots are in, and slim, beautiful coats. What on earth is going on? Did I, perhaps, fail to mention that the bob is conquering Norway? (Some 4 centimetres now, and I am part of the movement at last.)

My plan of finding some beautiful leather belts to cinch my waist with are now completely out of the question, I will look like I am trying to be fashionable. I will, however, I still think, wrap myself up in over-sized knitwear over jeans and heels. And I will under no circumstances lay off my coats. Particularly not the one with the three quarter length arms.

On the other hand, what I like turning high fashion is always positive in the sense that I can get the garments I want and that suit me. (How I want a Burberry coat. I need a well-payed job.) And I think I might have to clean my room up a bit later, and do something about the chaos my make-up has fallen into. Whatever is the point of having expensive make-up in pretty packages if not displaying it?

It amuses me endlessly that the girls at my school wear the names Dior, Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent and have on idea what design they are promoting this season. They have no idea that Coco Chanel was poor, or that Marc Jacobs creates shoes. They could not have pointed to a couture piece by John Galliano had they been asked to. I know nothing at all, and I am more fashionable than them. For, really, fashion is not about wearing leggings and dresses (I hate to call the pieces of slack fabric sold at "Gina Tricot" dresses), but about retaining a style of ones own. They even wore over-sized pieces of neon-coloured parka this winter.

I am roughly four centimetres from having a bob. My hair-dresser swore she'd no less than maul me if I bleached my hair on my own - not that I ever thought of doing it on my own -, so I think going platina is shelved for the time being. Or, til I can convince myself and my hair-dresser that it is a really grand idea, and trick mum into paying for it.

The Lord of the Rings EE-marathon was fun, despite severe sleep-deprivation (we should've had urtevann.) And the day before, with Kristine, was, for lack of a better word, informative. On to cheery news, I am a mere four centimetres from my bob at the moment. One more appointment with my hair-dresser, and I have a bob. It's a short, but I love it.

Had I the money to buy high-end clothes, I would run riot with Mark Jacobs' fall collection. This is an utterly wonderful coat. And the hat, gloves and shoes wouldn't hurt either. And I'm willing to do something drastic to get my hands on a Burberry coat (they're just sophisticated).

The new mobile is beautiful, too. It turns into a mirror when I'm not using it. - I'll end my gushing now.

Oh, I bought another pair of shoes a few weeks ago. "Low Shola" Miss Sixty calls them. Black, pump-ish, with an instep-fastening. Unsurprisingly, they have leather soles, which prompted another visit to the familyc-cobbler, who now recognices us and grins knowingly.