Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Hair Today and Gone Tomorrow

Went down to London for the weekend for my friend's daughter's 18th birthday party. It was full of beauteous teens looking amazing, oozing confidence and talking about which university they were going to. Life spread out at their prettily-varnished feet. I used to be like that. Not now though.

Right now, my life is in a bit of a mess and I couldn't fit into the oyster-coloured silk frock I brought down for the party because it gathered in accusing wrinkles over my hips and stomach. The accusation they leveled ran along the lines of "You got fat mate". Even worse, I had a haircut the day before and much as I love my hairdresser, it doesn't do it for me.

The last haircut he gave me was the best I'd ever had, it shaved off 10 years and looked sexy. Everybody who saw it said it was great. I sat in the chair and reminded him what he did and asked for the same. He shook his head. "We'll do something different," he said. I shook my head. No - I wanted the same thing. It had been the best haircut ever. I'd looked young again. I wanted the same. He shook his head again. "We'll go shorter this time." I should have written it in blood on his mirror "I want what I had before". I didn't get it. You always know when you have a bad haircut because you can't look at your face in the mirror, you just look at the hair around your face, and while you're saying primly "Thankyou that's great", inside your head you're screaming "Buggering bollox." That was me. It's not the haircut per se, the cut is as sharp as ever. It's the fact, he's taken off so much, there is nowhere for my jowls to hide. Also, the cut's razored and after blow-drying I look like I'm wearing Liz Taylor's hair. Not Liz Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Liz Taylor in the wheelchair with the bad back trying to be brave and very very bouffant. I tried curling it a bit and instead of Liz, I began to shape-shift into my favorite dolly Rosemary who talked when you pulled a string and asked you to tea and is now a one-legged bath toy and hasn't said much in a while.

After the haircut, I went out to dinner with my best gay boyfriend and his partner.
"I've had a haircut," I said. He looked at me dubiously. "Perhaps if you did something with the fringe? " he offered.

I intend to shoot the children's guinea-pigs and make a hat. Needs must. I'll explain. "Look at me," I'll say.

Tuesday, February 02, 2010


I've broken open the first draft of my novel which I finished just before Christmas and am currently attempting to improve it. A lot. A-lot-a-lot. How's the writing going? Hmmm. Let's say, I dreamed the other night that crocodiles ate my hands - both of them. I just had the arms and nothing at the end of flapping sleeves. Nice huh? I didn't even swallow down a little spoonful or two of that yummy green cold medicine before I went to sleep. I didn't even take a swift toke on the crack pipe. You don't need a dictionary of dreams to figure out my subconscious is not impressed with what I've done so far. I've thought about exactly what it might mean (and God knows, if I was still in counselling, this one would keep my psychotherapist going for weeks.) Among the options, I figure:
1. give up - you've not got the skill set
2. really, you should give up now before your hands drop off in shame at this tosh
3 (bearing in mind, you're supposed to be everybody in the dream and that includes the crocodiles)I'm damaging myself permanently by carrying on.
Ho hum. Maybe I'll get myself a nice job in PR.
"Why exactly are you interested in a job in our press office may I ask?"
"I thought it might help the nightmares go away. Can you hear the voices too? They're loud today aren't they?
That should clinch it.