Every time I’ve thought about cutting my own fringe on my travels I’ve thought, no Becky, this is a time in which you are meeting lots of new people, heaps of new friends and contacts… make an effort and get it done it properly. But every time the hairdresser slides that little black plastic cape off my shoulders and stands back proudly to admire her work I think, OH FERFUXSAKE, I could’ve done that better myself.
I don’t even understand it either. I mean, we’ve been through the fact that my Spanish isn’t perfect, but just because I can’t say “please cut it in a straight line,” doesn’t mean I’m trying to convey I want it hacked into a perfect upward slope towards the moon.
Today, courtesy of Sylvia at Shit Cutz in Cordoba I look like a boy. I’m also sunburnt because I rode horses all day yesterday thinking “my foundation has factor 15 in it, I’m sure I’ll be fine.” But I wasn’t.
So yeah, great. I am now a sunburnt boy. Thanks Sylvia and thanks Max Factor. Awesome.