A while ago, I was still afraid I wouldn’t find a decent winter jacket in time and I’d have to wear my überstraight dark blue Carhartt again. Today, about a month later, I bought my second new jacket since then. They’re both made in Sweetzerland; the one I had’s an olive green sort of ski jacket with red and white stripes and today, I bought a hella classy black one. It’s a freaking addiction is what it is.
Also: I adore you. Yes, you.
It is Monday, early noon. I get off the tram at a random stop because I have just passed a hair salon where, judging by the window display, they appear to sell Tigi and I need a fresh tube of Hard Head gel. I ring the bell to ask the woman inside to let me in—this particular salon is located in a somewhat dodgy neighborhood. She unlocks the glass door, which is surrounded by the glass display window, as the very process of locking it strikes me as somewhat pointless. I ask for a tube of Hard Head and she gives me the old “What are you on? Acid? Is it acid? I was young once, too, you know. I know what it’s like to be on acid. You trip and ask people for hard heads. I know your kind. I used to be you, but without a wang, with boobs and less hairy, or at least in some places.” look. Meanwhile, the sole customer, a female in her twenties, seems rather cross; I realize I have walked in in the middle of her makeover, which was well over due from the looks of it. I decide to rephrase my question and specify that I require a silver tube of hair gel. The look remains unchanged. Having contemplated running away from this parallel universe and refrained from it after realizing my conversation partner has locked the glass door behind me, I rekindle myself with what’s left of my self-confidence and repeat my question. As I am doing so, I spot the very objective of my mission all along on a shelf to my left, behind a glass door, which is no doubt locked as well. Consequently, I instruct the woman to fetch it for me. Just to be safe, while pointing to the tube, I mention that it’s the silver one that I require. Evidently, the woman fails miserably yet again. She grabs a frivolously colored can, probably filled with hair spray. For the fourth time, I mention that I in fact need the silver tube; she goes “Oh.” To my great satisfaction, she clings on to it. Victory is mine! Ahh, but the proverbial fat lady lies in fact in the exchange of goods for funds. The woman states the price of exactly twenty euro, to which I hand her two tenners. She counts them—I kid you not, though, at this point in the story, I suspect the level of surprise on your end is little to none—and, after a brief moment of silence, I am handed my newly purchased hair care product, which I deposit in the messenger bag I am carrying. The woman spontaneously—there’s your surprise—unlocks the door and, without looking back, I walk, nay, run out, towards the nearest tram stop and away from this godforsaken harbor of ill communication. The end. Or is it?
So I’m not supposed to laugh when my school talks about Sprint : pakket voor studentn met dyslexie?
It was awesome. Dinner at Faim de Toi, drinks at Belga Queen, night at my place. Fabulous, really. I don’t think I’ve ever been this infatuated.
Tomorrow’s gonna be awesome. We’re going out to dinner with Pinky and Kim, so yes, a double-date. My first ever as well, and it’s sure going to be a pleasure to have Brecht there with me to enjoy it. I can hardly wait!