I find heat difficult to cope with. I’m not even talking about the sunburn factor – just the wamth itself is enough to make me spend my days groaning miserably and fanning myself ineffectually with a magazine. When I was in Nashville a few years ago I had to be rushed from air-conditioned building to air-conditioned car in the fastest possible time, lest I dehydrate and/or collapse, landing in an overheated heap on the melting tarmac, where my body would instantly sizzle and evaporate into the hazy air.
Anyway. With this in mind, I don’t know what possessed me to opt for the south of France as my chosen destination for the month of July.
I’m actually having panic attacks about it, as I sit once again in a sea of unpacked clothes and general disorganisation. Tallinn has been pretty hot, but temperatures have never gone above what I might reasonably be expected to endure in Northern Ireland. It distresses me terribly, therefore, to observe that the temperature upon my arrival in Lyon promises to be 32°C.
There’s only one thing for it, I decided yesterday, as I returned from a mild stroll in even milder temperatures and spent ten minutes gulping down water and pushing sweat-soaked locks of Mad Hair out of my eyes, the Mad Hair has got to go. And so it was that this afternoon I located an English-speaking hairdresser’s salon and marched resolutely towards it. Having less hair on my head is, let’s face it, probably my only hope of survival in 32°C. All intentions of growing it into a chic, sleek bob have been abandoned: this is an emergency situation, and it is time to return to the insane spikey look. It is a matter of life and death.
Alas! I am too late, for the hairdresser had no appointments available today. I leave tomorrow morning, with the hair equivalent of a 15-tog duvet on my head.
Woe is me. Woe.