Wednesday, 24 October 2018
WHEN I lingered looking in a shop window a tad too long the other day (drooling over Christmas decs, not chocolate gift boxes, I’ll have you know) and inadvertently caught sight of myself, I gasped.
At first, I thought Ken Dodd was gasping right back at me but no such luck — it was actually me.
Shaking my head like Scooby Doo when he can’t quite believe he’s seen a scary monster (no offence, Sir Ken), I closed my mouth and tried to pat down the rat-brown, frizzy flyaways to no avail.
I decided right then and there to finally do something about it.
I’ve always hated my hair, you see, curly or straight, ever since my lovely brother pointed out that I looked like a young, chubby Bette Midler if I left it curly and a teenage Garth from Wayne’s World if I straightened it to within an inch of its life. Which, despite my sibling’s comments, I have been doing for the past 30 years.
But I’ve been on the lookout for a fab new hairdresser who knows what to do with curly hair, ever since my GHDs broke from severe overuse and I couldn’t afford to replace them.
So it was timely and handy that I found myself in beautiful Goring, country residence of the legendary George Michael (whose December Song is currently making me weep whenever I hear it), at the brilliant Albert Fields hair salon last week.
Now I love a bit of celebrity goss as much as the next person, but who the hell are the people in the trashy mags these days?
And why do they give you a cup of tea when there’s no way you can interrupt the hairdresser every few minutes to take a sip?
And then it’s so cold by the time you get to it, it’s formed a thin layer of ice on the top!
God, I sound like such a grumpy old woman. And I look like one, too.
In fact, as I sit here in the hairdressers, shocked by my wrinkles and bored to tears by the fashion, home décor and celebrity magazines, it strikes me that I am fairly galloping towards old age.
Because I’m also struck by how there never seems to be any time to just think these days.
I mean, we’re always rushing hither and thither, can’t stop, must dash, gotta go/fly/run etc — it’s enough to give you a stitch.
But now, with little else to do except studiously avoid my reflection in the hairdresser’s mirror, I stare out the window, just thinking.
And by the time I’m in the fantastic massage chair, getting the bleach rinsed out of my hair, I’ve made a mental list of things I’ve learnt in my first 50 years on earth:
• If you’re a Mum, make sure you have some space in your house or flat that is just for you, out of bounds to everyone else (except maybe the dog).
• Speaking of dogs, if you’re a newly Single Mum, think carefully about bringing a puppy into your no doubt already chaotic home. And by think carefully, I mean don’t do it. Yet. Let the dust settle for a few years first.
• And if you do get a dog, make sure you take them out every day for at least an hour-and-a-half or you may be faced with protest poos on your kitchen floor even though the back door is wide open and they’re fully house-trained.
• Getting glasses is a win — they’ll pull everything in your life into much sharper focus and make you look 100 times smarter, too.
• At the first sign of hag hairs on your chinny chin chin or top lippy lip lip, don’t muck about with tweezers, get thee to a lasery clinic ASAP.
• If you have young kids, don’t ever ask what they want for dinner — tell them. And ignore their cries of “Not McDonald’s Drive Thru again, Mum!”
• Never, ever EVER go to the hairdressers for highlights (or any other ludicrously lengthy job) without a full face of make-up. Nope, no exceptions. Don’t even think about it.
And so, armed with these pearls of wisdom, I hope you have a very merry Christmas and a super-happy new year, free of protest poos and unwanted facial hair.
Lots of love,
25 December 2017
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