Another day of working hard on the essay, although I still managed to find time to browse Rightmove for all properties in South Wales and England for sale at £45,000 or thereabouts.
A girl can dream.
(A girl can dream IF she wants to live in a garage or on a caravan park.)
The heated hairbrush I ordered off eBay after the nice lady on a YouTube hair-trimming tutorial told me hers had changed her life arrived today.
It made my hair go even more Crystal Tipps and Alistair than usual.
After I'd battled the static into submission, I read the instructions.
Of course, I'd done it wrong. I will try again tomorrow having learned and internalised the many rules and requirements.
But it did make me wonder what kind of carnage had made it necessary for the original eight page instruction pamphlet to be supplemented with:
An A4 sheet reiterating the instructions IN BIGGER FONT.
An erratum slip saying 'yes it's meant to buzz when you switch it on' (I paraphrase).
And a single, sinister, black glove.
I remember the days when brushing your hair used to be quite straightforward.
No matter. I worked out twenty years ago the best way to tame my frizz is to put on a woolly bobble hat and never take it off.
Today's Photo: The Heatproof Glove of Doom
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