I'm at the hairdresser's. It's been a while since a deft pair of scissors cut my hair. During the pandemic, I had to make do with ordinary scissors, but I learned how to cut my hair with not too impressive results. I'm pretty proud of myself, though. My hair doesn't make it easy for me. It's an antisocial creature, a rebellious soul that laughs at the modern blow dryers, and the rest of the hairdressing gadgets. I'm sitting in front of the mirror now. I have my notebook open on my knees and a pen I love, it was a gift from a very special person.

When I entered the salon, I noticed that it was decorated with good taste, even though I'm starting to get tired of seeing Christmas stuff everywhere. Especially the dying poinsettias. People buy them every year only to throw them away as soon as the holidays are over. The bravest (and most naive) keep them, relying on their green fingers, but poinsettias are perennials and all they want to do is to go back to Mexico. I don't blame them.

The hairdresser, a smiling blonde with blue eyes, has already pulled my head back gently several times , but the last time wasn't so good—this one carried a message: "I can't cut your hair if you keep writing." I'd better stop here— because my head's worth it.