Today, the rugby team's assistant coach fnally noticed that I wear kneebraces and asked about my joint situation. It made me laugh that he's taken this long to figure it out. I mean, I've had to drop out of a couple of running exercises to rest my knees when they spaz out already.
Anyway, Sunday I cut my roommate's hair. Yes. You read correctly. Me. Cutting hair. And yes, I know what you're thinking too. Apparently it isn't so bad. I, being afflicted of a peculiar state of mind, don't find it all that appealing because I did it. (There are two kinds of people in this world: people with author's disease and people with director's disease. The former never think what they do is good enough. The latter think that nothing anyone does is as good as theirs. And I probably butchered that quote, but oh well.) I can also pinpoint parts I didn't do well, like the bangs on the right side of her face. I was trying to taper them, but while the left side blends perfectly, the right side drops abruptly from where I was tapering to where I wasn't. It's somewhat sketchy, if not always obvious. Anyway, the whole ordeal was traumatic for me.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment