Therefore, he cannot attend the interview he’d arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon I’ve never heard of, for the student newspaper. Kyle is my roommate, and he has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair and hope that I look semi presentable. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired boy with blue eyes too big for his face staring back at me, and give up. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. Damn my hair – it just won’t behave, and damn Kyle Kavanagh for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror.
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