Airplanes and Hair Dye

Well, hell flight knocked a round out of me, as usual. The cold didn't help.

I'm happy to be home.

Tired to the point of hallucinating, but glad I went.

Mr. UK left me a sweet parting memory. I've been talking for ages about dying my hair, but I have always been too chicken. What if I don't like it? Well, I decided to go ahead and try. Mr. UK sat in the bathroom with me, reading out the instructions while I gobbed the gunk into my hair. Eventually, he decided I was missing too many spots, and got involved. There's something strangely intimate about having a guy wash your hair, or, in this case, work the dye in, then wash it out. It led to a great deal of less-mentionable activity, which is also good. I do double-takes when I see myself in the mirror...doesn't quite look like me, and it will probably remind me of him for quite awhile.

I went to London with 'cheap and dirty' in my head, and wound up with sweet and romantic. Mr. UK was wonderful. I am suprisingly unemotional about the whole thing, though. I am terrible at seperating sex and love, but for once, I just feel like a had a great week with a good friend, and really nothing more. No yearning to be with him, no wishing for the phone call. Just...content.

Ask me again in a week when I'm unbearably horny, though, and I might have a different opinion...