Hair dye


I have become uncommonly aware of hair dye this week.
I sat musing today, in a shop, looking at the swathe of men around me, (none of them paying me the slightest attention, I promise. I had already paid my bill), and realised that they, without exception, had dyed hair. I went on to try to imagine each of them in the act of actually dyeing their hair, sitting with the cream dripping down their forehead, into their eyes as it trickled froom their eyebrows, and into their mouths from the ends of the moustaches. It did provoke a burst of laughter which I hastily smothered, but it is quite a thing. I think I would say that 98% of Indian males dye their hair. That is a huge number of bottles of dye each week. I wonder if I am in the wrong business.

I was reliably informed, by a dyed, moustachioed male, only a few days ago, that I would be vastly more beautiful if I dyed my own long grey locks. Sweet. I smiled sweetly. I have heard this many times here, in Oh, so many charming and forthright ways that I do not take it personally, nor get upset. I informed him that I felt quite satisfied with my beauty and was not looking to overwhelm any one here.
Irony is lost in translation.

My prosperity meditation is going well. The quotes for the clothes have come in at a good price. My job today is to decide which fabrics, which colours etc. I am not relishing the experience and can think of many other things I could do instead, but it just delays the inevitable. The delight of the inevitable. So I am staying locked in my room for several hours whilst I committ to the numbers, colours and fabrics. It is why I ma here, after all. But during my morning oractice I wished I had help, particularly today, but themn I have wished for help at every stage of this experience, and now I find myself experienced! Wild. I am experienced and there are moments when I feel grown up. They do not last long, I promise. Most of the time I feel like a child pretending, but I have experience. How fab.