Tag Archive: self confidence


Kingdom for a pony(tail)!

It`s been 3 months now. And I am still abashed and peppery. Every damn time I see myself in the mirror I am confronted with THAT. „That“ is the sparse cluster of I`ll-go-wherever-I-like-today on my head. Yeeeeees, the hair.

What happened? Well…You know how every now and then somebody recommends you his/her stylist? And sometimes, just sometimes, you actually „try“ it? Yeees, I`ve done it. And now I look like somebody`s aunt who is fashionably stuck somewhere in the early 80s. And trust me, not the cool 80s, but the trashy ones. Hell, I`m sure you`ve been there. What do you do? What is the next move after this…this…disaster?

The answer is expected –   you spend next few months cursing, swearing, raising your hand in righteous anger towards the skies crying „WHY??????“. Of course, then the actions are followed by your creative side using the unfailing spring of imagination where you daydream of several well organized operations against the vicious stylist where you crash through the door, take the scissors and…and….do what you surely don`t do best! But then again, cutting hair is evidently not the strongest side of the mentioned stylist either. So you`re even!

But of course, nobody does that. No, you cry, use the improper words and that`s it. Then you take few deep breaths (one is just not enough) and harmonize with the situation. Face it – all you can do is wait to grow again. Or to completely change your style into something more practical. Which for lots of us is just not the option. (you know, us with the bushy curly hair which just have to have long hair, otherwise they look like the looniest representatives of the 70’s Afro look)

 

But in the meanwhile you may develop a brand new hobby called „I stare eagerly at other woman“. It is cheap, you can practise it almost anywhere, and your best half won`t be jealous, just perfect!

Now really, I do look at aaaaall women, and they are all fine to me. It doesn`t matter if you are 17 or 77, if you have nice long hair or at least a decent female haircut, you`ll se me admiring you. Yes you! Imagine this: you are walking down the street, minding your own  buisness, or having a cup of coffee carefully sipping it like a lady (or a truck driver, nevermind) and somewhere near you there will be someone sighing and saying „Aaaaaah, look at that hair! Beautiful!“ and you will walk away without knowing it. Someone will consider you gorgeous and you won`t have any idea of it. Yeah, yeah, I know what you`re thinking, but this is my new hobby and I am sticking to it! Or at least `till I don`t learn how to knit. Or do gobelins.

 

Seriously, the worst thing that happened is that 3 days after the Big mess I went with a friend of mine for a cup a coffee. I needed a a friendly shoulder and a tap on my back, so I slowly untied my hair, looked at her and asked „Well?“ and she said „Hmmmm…I don`t…hmmm…I would like to say something better but you look… you look… like a WOMAN!“. Damn! Not that, not The WOMAN! No, no, no, no, no, I would take granny, granny hair styles are romantic but the woman…Woman style is serious, woman style is rigid, it it…it is…boring and old. Nobody wants that.

 

So, in the meanwhile until it grows back again, I have decided to wear a ponytail. And I must say that it is a short one. Pretty short. Embarrassingly short.

And I don`t know what I would give to have a lush rich hairy crown on my head again. A kingdom? Hell yes! Hear, hear…a kingdom for a pony(tail)! A kingdom for a wild and primeval proclamation of freedom, strenght and sexuality! A female hair. This beautiful, so personal and unique, touch of feminality. Which must be treated as the crown jewel.

Because I (and everyone else) deserve it.

Or else…

 

 

 

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This is the exact way how the story was brought to me, and now I am giving it to you….

There`s a guy. Actually, a representative of a certain type of the man. He is the walking nightmare for the majority of the male sex.

He is The One.

The Chosen One…

His name is Patrick. He is 38. French or Canadian, he is speaking with a hard French accent. Which sounds so….damn good! He is 6`4, his face is slightly peaked, with a dominant chin and a strong jaw. His body is tense and muscular, but not too much. Just about that, when you touch it, the hand may send to the brain informations about a living rock. That perfect body, so tough and firm, has a history. Le Patrick is a free climber. When his strong hands pry every curve on the rock, his mind is sharpened. In that moment, he can devote to his hidden passion-philosophy.

There is something magnificent in his climbing style. Especially when he takes of the shirt and lets the small drops of sweat to shimmer on a tight surface of his skin…And glide on his back, without any thought of doubt or insecurity. He knows. And may.

His moves are slow and silent. His face has a mysterious smile, always ready for a conversation. He is full of understanding and always in a good mood. Turbo friendly towards the whole universe, he has enough strenght to bare every challenge. And to reward all it`s participants….

Die bastard, die!!!

Damn you!

Damn the Patrick and all his representatives!

Why? Because there is no woman which will resist him! Because all the other men, compared to him, are assholes!

Because Le Patrick will never fell asleep whith a dry dick! Because however you may work and try around some hottie, she will melt like a fine jello and pour over Le Patrick`s figure and leave the guy with who she was before him. Without a simple goodbye.

Because when HE shows up, there isn`t a thing which a normal, ordinary guy may say or do, not to become totally insignificant, dull, boring and stupid. Because HE is quite ok, friendly and correct towards all those ordinary guys, not giving them a good reason to punch him right in the face!

Because He is The Chosen One.

Every chick will choose Him. No Regular Joe doesn`t have a chance while He is around. They are all His. Drooling, blinking, giggling on every His word watching Him with admiration.

Which leaves Regular Joe all alone on the bar, sipping his lonely drink. Because he doesn`t exist any more. Not a trace. His presence and prevalence are irreversibly erased….

I do hope that the story is funny to you how it was to me. They told me the story with such a passion and bitterness that I was loughing out loud all the time while they were telling it!!Imagine what is bothering them! Le Patrick! Some fictitious guy in their head which they admire and hate!

A secret nightmare for which they loath every guy with a stronger chin, free climbing and foreign accents. Leaving them to live in fear deep down.

For some Le Patrick which may show up on their, always unsecured, territory!

Just too damn funny. And then they say that women are dramatic and insecure…Ha!

 

Female post

This is a female post.

Post for women.

So I would reccomend to all the guys just to leave and not bother with it.

The Almighty knows that I don`t fall for brands. I`m just not touched by all this grand names.

I know that lots of woman save, starve and doing whatever they can, just to get that dark piece of signatured desire. Because they want it. They want it bad. I presume that then, that fabulous piece, represents the compensation for something far more expensive, like selfconfidence or sometimes even love. Just to get that feeling…

But, how it usually goes, when you are not sighing and trembeling about something, that something simply walks into your life. Without any stress. And so, day before yesterday, a red Dior bag walked into my life. A very beautiful red Dior bag. It was given to me, I said thank you, took it and left.  When we were left alone, the bag and me, I looked at it more carefully. A very simple design, the way I like it, but fantasticly red. And it`s mine.

Considering that at the moment I really didn`t have a clue where am I going to take it, I`ve just  drop it on the dresser. And then we looked at each other for a while. The bag and me…

She, so joyful and playful, tipically French, with that joie the vivre sparkling from her, just stands there observing me with glee, asking „where will we go, the two of us?“ with the inevitable giggling. I am sitting on the armchair, returing her the look and smiling gracefully, just how you should with fine ladies, and answering her that I don`t know. Because I really don`t. Don`t have a clue.

And then I discovered something else – that I feel like a highlander in her presence.As a lumberjack, to be more precised. I do because, in the past few months, I have totally neglected my female appearing dimension.

The external, easy fixing, high heel-make-uping, shining, colorful, sexy, seducing dimension. The one with mandatory dressing up from at least half an hour of carefuly picking clothes, make up and shoes. I have replaced it with I`m-in-a-hurry-give-something-practical-and-comfortable dimension.

How it happened? You know, first I`ve decided not to buy any new clothes for a while because my closets are already bursting from it, then I got so many engagements for which that dressed up look it`s just not practical, so I`ve just pushed the fine pieces at the back and placed the comfortable clothes at the front. Easy peasy.

So I`ve post-poned the good looks for some other times. Left my feminality in post tense.

And I must say that I did almost fanatically. Because it is really not important that I look good when I have so many things to do! OK, I don`t wear flanel without the bra and I don`t wear sweat pants but I definitively don`t look raveshing.

But it is important. For a woman. To feel sexy. To dress up, look herself in the mirror and loves what she sees. To feel like a fine expensive artwork.

And now I know why that wonderful red thing came  into my life – to wake me up. With that shiny red colour. On it`s gentle non-verbal way, it touched that unfailing point of femininity. And brought a sanguinel playful breath of personal pampering and caring.

Love. The word is love.

Because I`m here. In all dimensions.

Also as a fine dressed up babe who looks herself pleased in the mirror.

Because I deserve it, vol.3.