Earlier this week I finally came to the highly deliberated decision that the last thing I need in my terrible twenties is to be confonted with a terrifying three inches of regrowth everytime I'm asked to show ID. So, with my current passport coming to its timely end, a new surname to boot and the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade awaiting my application, I said bye bye to the boisterous blonde and plunged head first into brunettedom. I haven't been this close to my natural hair colour in five years which should, in theory, leave me feeling wonderfully sweet and sixteen. Unfortunately I wasn't that sensible a teen and instead am finding myself frequently having to resist the curious urge to skull every alcoholic beverage in sight. Oh well, I'd rather face a drunkard for the next ten years than a head of questionable hair colour.
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