I have new hair. Over the past three days (long story) I have had it both extensively and intensely dyed, and cut. I have lost the long bits that have been the defining part of the Dee hairdo for years now. I actually feel kinda freed by this (when I stop and go, "Gee, how do I feel about this?", because contemplating my emotive response to my hair is not actually something that comes naturally or unbidden to me). It's intriguing, having my hair doing new things (like getting into my face and feeling lighter).

Also, the colour is fucking fantastic.

Continuing my mini journey of discovery; I found out today that one of my dear, eloquent, delightful friends is the Australian equivalent of "Belle de Jour". (If you are not aware of the one to whom I refer - ex-blogger whose blog of her experiences as a London callgirl led to a book contract relating to the same material.) Except better, naturally, because my friend is possessor of a beautiful mind and a languid, gossamer erudition that I just know is going to make her memoirs more gentle, more womanly somehow, than the stark, brash tone of Belle's (which are still quite a lot of fun, don't get me wrong, but not my preferred voice). And also - heh - my friend is publishing under her own name, not hiding behind anonymity. Which is, to me, just her. She is a gorgeous, fabulous, quietly strong woman (with a most delightful streak of wicked and fun).

I am quite bursting with pride and adoration for my darling friend. It shows. I don't care.