I know I am going to sound incredibly unfeminine and ungirly when I say this but… I hate going to the hairdressers. I feel the burden heaving down on my chest whenever I notice my hairs start to split or frazzle at the ends knowing that time has come around again – I have to make another appointment. It’s one of those necessary evils I can’t seem to shake.
I knew that I was in trouble the moment I stepped onto the train carriage and was greeted with an intoxicated “Hello pretty lady” from a man on the other side of the carriage. It was late; nearly 9pm in Adelaide and as a young woman travelling alone I sat cautiously on the other side of the carriage without falter. I had moved about a year earlier from the country town Mildura to Adelaide city to study and to pursue a career. This particular night was not long after I had just landed a new job and was travelling home from work.