Guys and gals and pizzas and mushrooms.
HELLO!
My exams are over! I am officially done with 11th standard. I can't believe I'm a gazillion years old already. I can't believe I'll leave for college in a year. What even? It seems like yesterday that I was teaching all my friends how to skip rope. Er, I'm not too sure what that has to do with age and maturity and so on. But you get the gist, okay.
Speaking of zwingylalaness, I am soon going to start an Instagram account for posting pictures of the poems I will write (and have written) in this really awesome typewriter font thingy which will make everything seem deep! Look, I'll prove it -
Ya. :3 So yes, I'll link the account to my blog, CHECK IT OUT otherwise i will crie.
Okay.
So today to celebrate our second official day of freedom (our last exam, Economics, was two days before), and to spend time with Tall-y who is leaving us in two weeks time (his father is being relocated), all of us went bowling. I came, er, second last. The only person I won from was Tall-y's younger brother (who is of course taller than me, what with him being Tall-y's younger brother, KEEP UP) but I was very proud of myself. I spent a lot of time gliding across the floor in my bowling shoes. I've bowled a zillion times (is that how you say it) and yet I got like five gutterballs in a row. It was sad, we will not talk about this on this side of the grave ever again.
Moving on.
So after losing tremendously at life, I decided that I wanted a haircut. A side fringe to be specific. Many fashion experts asked me with many a quizzical looks why I did not go for a front fringe. My answer to that, my dear young loves, is patience. It shall happen in the summer vacations. Not yet. But we digress. This is not to discuss the beauty of my hair. That is scheduled for Thursdays at 9 p.m. (IST)
ANYWAY. So I went to the little salon, and I had dragged Hot-y along with me, while the other boys did weird stuff that boys do when they are alone (ie went to the Nike outlet and made noise and I don't know dribbled basketballs and stuff). So while I was paying the receptionist at the salon, there was a man eating an Indian dish called Aloo Gobbi. Now, now. Do not get me wrong. Aloo Gobi is obviously a very delicious dish. Aloo = Potato and Gobbi = cauliflower. So it's actually a pretty tasty combination. I mean I loathe it, but you must remember that I am a buffoon. This is what it looks like (the aloo gobbi, not me being a buffoon) -
Anyway, it's cleared out, it's a tasty dish, but this man was eating it with his hands etc, and I HAVE NO PROBLEM WITH THAT, but I'm just a bit picky when it comes to food, so that scene was slightly off putting for me. But I put it all behind me and I patiently waited for my haircut.
The Aloo Gobbi man finished aloo-gobbing and washed his hands with water. In front of me. Without soap. And then. He came. Towards me. And.
Cut.
My.
Hair.
With his Aloo Gobbi hands.
It was sad, okay. It reminded me of what had happened in the early summer of 9th grade. Which brings us to today's rant. COMMENCE.
It was a warm summer evening in ancient Greece. Wait. What? No. It was some time. In India. Little Kapoorni was in 9th standard, and she had a Hindi exam that day. She was riding in the bus, going to school, revising her notes like a good girl.
She will stop referring to herself in third person now.
So I was in the bus. Sitting. Studying. Like a good girl should. So our bus had those railings over the seats, where we could keep our bags and stuff. Anyway, the bus was jam packed, but I was not paying attention to anything around me. I was vair, vair engrossed in my Hindi notes. Suddenly, I felt something on my hair. Was it raining? I had definitely felt something warm and wet touch my immaculate french braid. I frowned, and touched my hair. I felt something warm and sticky on my head. Had my head voluntarily exploded? I looked at my fingers. There was something...yellow-y on them. I think I almost burst into tears. I felt something again hit my head. I looked up. Was God peeing on me? I inspected the railing above my head and my blood froze.
It was the driver's tiffin! He'd probably gotten
daal chaawal (read lentils and rice, wait let me show you what it looks like)
for lunch and it was falling all over my bloody hair. Plus, it smelled so funky. Pretty soon, lots of delightful yellow chunks of it had fallen into my hair. Ah, attractive. Take note, young girls. Take beauty tips from Yours Truly. So by that time, everybody had noticed what was going on (I was shrieking very loudly) and they were all sympathizing. Ie laughing. I couldn't do anything about it though, I had a test to give, so I did give it with misty eyes, while everybody called me daal girl for the rest of the day.
What can I say. Sucks to be me.
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