part 1.

the sound of the blowdryer was lethal. the girl was brushing my hair endlessly and killing my hearing with that bloody machine. my head was already buzzing in bed that morning, and now its state was deteriorating rapidly. i couldn't keep my eyes open and i could barely speak, and the girl was asking me about where i had gone the night before, how it was, etc. we never liked each other, but she still took care of my hair and i still brought her chocolate. when she finished, i looked at my freshly highlighted hair and thought how much nicer it would have felt if only i could see it clearly. i thanked her politely even though i didn't mean it and left the salon. the freezing january air hit me as i stepped out on the street. i realised what a mess my stomache is. i stopped to buy water at a kiosk, and noticed that the elderly salesman was looking at me curiously, first my face, then the marlboro lights shaking in my hand and finally the bottle of water i was buying. i supposed what he was thinking and just packed up my wallet and left.
i hate hangovers. i never used to have them before that day, nor did i again after that. i felt toxic, dehydrated, tired and sick. the bottle of absolut finished me off the night before.
i felt sort of chic rumbling towards home, shivering and with sunglasses on that cloudy day. i reminded myself of heroin chic, rock gigs and rehab clinics. i thought of grunge, black-and-white vogue spreads and viceroy and wayfarers. then i wondered what kind of a society that is where hungover, pale and skinny 18-yearolds clutching their designer shades are considered chic.
the 90s really twisted us.