Right...

I had my hair cut and you'll be most relieved to know that I am pleased with the result.

Now, I know your next questions is going to be, "Can we see a picture?" Well, you can, but you're going to have to wait until Monday because this evening I had a fuck up with the hair dye. I decided to get rid of the highlights and go back to being my usual mono shade of dark brown (Gayer Nutresse No.145 - Sexual Chocolate). But when I came to mix the solution, instead of using the colour concentrate, I accidentally dumped the contents of the post-colour intensive conditioning treatment tube into the developing mix.

Even though I realised I'd messed up before I put the contents of the bottle onto my freshly sheared barnet, I will admit to freaking out, just a little bit.

Unfortunately it was my second freak out in less than 48 hours, both of which occurred infront of Vix, who after having lived with me for almost a year, had never born witness to a Christopher freak out.

I'd like to say that when I freak out I'm like Madeline Kahn in Clue:

"I hated her ... so ... much ... I ... it ... it ... flame. Flames ... on the side of my face ... breathing ... breath ... heaving breaths ... heaving ..."

Or that I freak out like my brother - pure, unbridled rage, coupled with a spark of pure psychopathy. He's very, very good at this one and will demonstrate it at the drop of a hat - for example, the time when he found out that the fleas present on William, our cat, had laid eggs in the follicles of his chest hair, or the time when I accidentally drove my car over his already broken foot, or the time when Mum found and destroyed his hidden marijuana farm, or the time when...

But I don't freak out in either of those ways. I'll leave you to guess exactly how I freak out. But I'll tell you this: I'm seriously considering exacting a terrible revenge against Vix for laughing profusely at me, on both of the occasions.