daddy’s girl

It’s Monday again and no, I haven’t finished doing any of the work I’m supposed to. I need to figure out so much where my work is concerned – primarily, how badly I want to keep doing it. Issa mad ting – saying no to money because you know you should be paid more, in the anticipation that someday someone will pay you more. And in the midst of that confusion, here I am, writing a blog post. Alas, alack, in this life, I have learnt nothing.

No, I’m lying. I’ve learnt how it’s so funny how for me, no matter how old I grow, I still want my parents to think I’m amazing. Even if I don’t need anyone’s validation. Even if I know they don’t approve of anything I’m doing. Even when I think some of the ideas are super old school.

I cut my hair recently. My parents really hated my hair, but that’s not why I cut it. They’re so so excited about the cut. Every time they see me, they’re excited. It’s a very new feeling. It makes me feel like a child – sweetly so, being clapped for after I did something precocious like cramming the periodic table writing my first ‘book’ at the age of 5 (both of which I did, ta).

I saw my dad on Saturday and he was swagged out with a waistcoat that matched my dress, so we took a selfie. We usually only take selfies when we’re matching, or at least, that’s what the pattern suggests – and we rarely, if ever, exchange compliments on the same. I told him, ‘Dad, you look so good,’ and he said, ‘You look wonderful.’

I’m still smiling about it.

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