What's in a day

So, pretty happening day today.

Last night fiance's cousin called me up to tell me about a job opportunity that sounds really interesting and that's in a field that I've sort of been thinking about getting into for a while. I don't really have any experience relevant to this position but I thought, hey! what the hell.

Said and done; This morning I called the guy I needed to speak to and after leaving a message he called me back and now I have an interview Friday.

How's that?

I'm firmly holding all five of my galloping horses though, seeing that it is quite a desirable job and like I said, I have no experience. But, according to the news anchors at the 5 o'clock news that seem to be a regular feature on this tv right here, stranger things have happened and in fact continue to happen every day. And really, who am I to question those trustworthy perfectly made up faces with their prompters and checked facts..?
That's right. No one. That's who.

But I needed swiftly to bring out Josefine 2.0, as all the 1.0 version seemed to do was sport a look referred to as "homeless man" and look unemployable (this is part of said look, who ever said I did anything half arsed? Oh yeah, well I showed you, me didn't I?)
Anyway, after talking to this man that was so eagerly sprinkling interviews around I decided the least I could do to help things along was to get a haircut. It's been three months since the last one, to say one was do would be to gravely understate the state of this hay coloured mop growing out of my head. I called up the salon I frequent (term used extremely loosely)and got an appointment. Oh joy!

Except for one thing.

Just like Extranjera, I too experience a slight surge of panic when faced with hair appointments.

I don't enjoy them.

Not so much because of the stranger-touching-me-bit (although I will say there is a certain discomfort brought on by this, what with being Scandinavian and all) but because of the talking.
The chit chat.
The small talk.

It's not so much that I'm incapable of the physical act of small talk, nor is it that I lack the mind required to come up with subjects relevant enough to be interesting yet irrelevant enough to leave both of us with a feeling that no personal territory has been invaded.

I just don't like it.

I'm not interested. I know I might come off as a jerk but I go to the hairdresser to get my hair done, not to talk about what was on tv last night or whether Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt may be headed for splitsville or not. Which, I know, is strange since those are usually two of my favourite subjects.
What I want to do is go in, read magazines, have coffee and those mint chocolate things that come with and just relax. Quietly. In uninterrupted silence.
This also goes for when I get a massage, have my nails done, am on a plane, train, tram or bus, hang out at a café or bookstore or when I'm at the park. Pretty much most situations where I'm not actively seeking out some kind of social interaction (this is IRL we're talking I'm assuming you're assuming).
Exeptions include situations involving alcohol or backpacker-type travel.

And yes, I know.
Not doing much to help the "cold and reserved Scandinavian" stereotype, but being Swedish it's either that or milkmaid with braids and her juggs out.