Why early modern European studies are not good for anything except really long titles that go on and on and are entirely irrelevant to this blog.

This blogger is back... yes that’s right, its uni semester again and as my reading list begins to take the shape of the formidably high Alps, Yellow Betty and I have made a speedy return to the online world for more metaphorical adventures and meandering rants...

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In the beginning, there was January. Nobody really remembers.

February: It came, it saw, I blinked and missed it.

March: seems to have arrived before its time.

This week has brought many questions and very few decisions upon my doorstep, and while I’m sure that’s entirely Saturn’s fault, I’ve tried to avoid blaming the cosmos and concentrate on making grand omg-last-semester-at-uni-what-now life plans. In between tutorials and sandwiches I’ve been thinking a lot, about the horrors that turning 21 will bring, wether Bella should have chosen Jacob or Edward and what on earth I should do next semester. Eventually I got to thinking that thinking wasn’t getting me anywhere, and so I sat down to take a long hard look at myself and in a moment, an epiphany!

“My hair looks utterly ridiculous.” I said aloud.

There just seems to be something completely unwinnable about the war I’m waging on my daggy ginger hair. I’m more than accustomed to the catchcry ‘ranga’, though I’ve always been more of a strawberry blonde, but age and wisdom seems to have turned my hair a much darker orangish-tinge, and quite frankly, I’m not happy about it. The temptation to drop a dash of blonde in and hope for the best has been teasing me for quite some time, but my (incredibly rational) fear of morphing into just another pretentious peroxide babe twists my stomach into tight knots whenever the idea becomes too advanced.

Neither, I decided, would it be a good idea to dye it an indescribable brownish black, lest my chequered pants and black shirt confuse me for some teenager-emo or worse...

Since it seems I’m doomed to remain a red head, I decided to breathe some life into my short-almost-bob with a ground breaking new style, something with the sexiness of the messy rockstar look but with class, a difference. Trying to pick the correct hair gel/cream/spray from the plethora of products available is something you either need a degree for, or a lot of luck. In the end, “Instant Rockstar”, for that casual ‘i just got out of bed look’. was my chosen hair-revolution. As it turns out, it looks more like you’ve been asleep for longer than Sleeping Beauty and woken up the Wicked Witch of the West, and so I decided Instant Bird’s Nest, was just a little to scene for me. But still, my luck did not improve. I soon discovered that gel makes it greasy, spray kills my brain cells, there’s a reason only boys use soap, bubblegum is a mistake and Beeswax gel seems to favour the floppy-spike look. In fact, it plain and simple sits the best when its completely and utterly dirty.

Running my hand through my hair to make it stick up and then patting it down again to make it lie flat it dawned on me that if I actually knew what I wanted, I’d be able to decide what to do... and here I was thinking I was talking about my hair.

The plan? Let’s just say the prognosis is pending (while I wait for Mercury to piss off.)