The Hills Have Eyes

It never used to be such a hard decision, choosing shampoo. For years I grabbed whatever was on special offer – maybe something medicated to fight dandruff – and hurried along to the Oopsies counter to buy my weekly provisions. But now I find myself scouring the shelves for something that will thicken and add volume to my fading follicles. A root booster for the brown smoke. I knew I should have bought that Jackie Chan hairloss gunk when I was in Hong Kong.

I suppose you get quite attached to your hair after 27 years. I always envisaged going bald in my 30s or 40s, enough time for face to develop deep furrows and a wise old expression that would suit a shiny scalp. If you look old and short, you can pull it off; similarly being tall and young looking doesn’t spell disaster. Look at Billy Corgan. However, being short, bald and baby-faced poses a pickle. The only thing I have going for me is that I look like Buddhist Monk, and that’s scant relief at best.

I think I might have stated before that, when I was young and flush with mane, if I ever started going bald it would all come off. The reality sinks in when it starts to happen. You look for reasons to justify why what little you have left must remain. It’s too cold or, in my present GPS coordinates, the sun is too bright. Must protect my head from skin cancer!

Who am I kidding?

On a less hairy note, tomorrow marks my first day of real travelling around on my own India was fairly sendentary: mainly Delhi with a few forays here and there. Ever since then I’ve been staying with family. Now I head out into Van Diemen’s land, starting with a 3-day tour along the Great Ocean Road. The bus leaves at 6:45 in the morning and my Aunts are all going to see me off.

I should have got some ticker tape. 

Last night, Tony was introduced to the addictive yet baffling world of Australian pokies – a planet where logic is suspended, Lady Luck rules and free coffee is served to rampant slot-machine addicts.

Sounds like my ex-flatmate’s version of heaven!