The other day my son said he needed some new clothes.

Now I’m lucky, because he doesn’t care about labels and would rather have lots of cheap clothes than one or two designer pieces.

Except when it comes to hiking gear.

And he is still enjoying the suit I bought him for his year 12 ball.

So we went down to Kmart at his request and for $138 bought:

2 jumpers
3 teeshirts
2 pairs of jeans
socks
jocks
1 pair sandshoes

Not a bad little haul.

But I felt guilty.

The jeans were $7.

How can you make jeans for $7??

You can’t even buy the material.

Imagine all the work that has gone into them.

Growing the cotton. Harvesting it. Processing it. Cutting it. Sewing it. Delivering it from China to Australia.

Then the mark up in the shop.

$7.

Who have I had to exploit to enable me to buy those jeans?

Today, in order to write this post I went to the Kmart website.

From the website

50 cents?

Must be a typo.

This is getting ridiculous.

The guilt didn’t stop me from buying the jeans this time.

I try and justify the cost against the $150 I spent on my own jeans a few weeks ago.

And that’s stupid too.

This world is crazy.

I’ve been watching preview copies of Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries.

The sexy Miss Fisher

I loved the books and I enjoyed the first two episodes which felt like an Aussie 30s style Midsomer Murders.

What’s not to like about that?

I must say that the fashion of the day wasn’t all that flattering.

That said, I like the hats.

Cloche me baby.

So my big question:

Should I get my hair cut like Phryne Fisher?

Seriously thinking about it… your opinion may just be the one that tips the balance.

That’s the way I roll.

There are a few times during your life when you feel like a grown up.

Antler New Zero cabin and medium sizes

You know, even at the age of forty-something-let’s-not-go-there, inside I still feel 17…okay maybe 22, are you the same?

And when I look in the mirror or catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window of the train sometimes I get a little unpleasant shock.

But there have been times in my life when I’ve suddenly thought… shit.  I’m a grown up.

Owning a mortgage on a house with a linen cupboard and larder – felt like a grown up then!

When I walked out of the hospital with my newborn.

The first time I travelled on my own.

Wearing matching underwear for the first time.

And today when I picked up my first ever set of matching luggage.

Grown. Up.

The luggage

I wanted matching cases, with the small one able to be used as hand luggage on domestic flights.

They had to have spinners – four wheels.

And they had to have those in-built groovy combination locking mechanisms.

I really wanted red luggage.

But.

This stuff was 41% off so it was practically free right?

I could live with bronze.

Happiness.

So why does it have to be matched luggage?

You know, I don’t know.

I mean the times I will actually use both at the same time will be few and far between.

And it’s not as if there are luggage police – well not ones that are interested in whether they match or not.

“Excuse me madam, we see you don’t have matching luggage… please come this way…”

Or.

“Last month you were spotted with a black suitcase, today yours is bronze… please explain!”

Bronze.  A fancy pants way of saying beige.

Matched luggage is just… nice.

Smart.

Grown up.

So ‘fess up.

What makes you feel grown up?

And how old are you inside?

So... would you say she's just big boned?

So I walked past this window display the other day.

It’s been there for a while but today I actually looked at it.

I’m not sure I like it.

It’s probably an ironic statement about the skeletal frames we see on the catwalk but even so…

I mean it’s not Halloween or anything.

Does it entice me to go into the store.

Not so much.

I guess it stands out.

What do you think?

Yea or Nay to skeletons as manniquins?

skirt made from cushion material

It all started with The West Wing.

I love The West Wing.

I watched the whole series on DVD a few years ago and yes I’ve cried during episodes.

But I haven’t watched it since we’ve had a democrat in The White House.

I like to think that Obama’s White House is just like the TV series.

It’s my little fantasy.

And he’s had a bit of bad press, a bit of “disappointment” aired by commentators in his reign.

So my antidote to that is to watch The West Wing again.

That, and reading about Shelley Obama’s outfits.

Now you might think that having seen the series already I’d be more controlled in my watching habits.

But no.

It’s back to back – I am addicted.

So what’s this got to do with the skirt?

As I pressed play on the third episode in a row I started to feel guilty.

And I’m not sure it’s such a good look in front of my screen obsessed teenagers.

And Groover was starting to growl.

Or maybe he was just annoyed with the other gamers playing Half Life.

Anyway I figured that if I was making something, then watching the next three episodes would be okay.

So I got out my pile of material, and perhaps I was influenced by the fact I had been sitting on the living room sofas for hours, but the leftover cushion cover material fairly jumped into my hands.

And I wore the skirt to work the next day.

Should the same thing happen to you – here’s how I made the skirt.

I wrapped it around my waist.

I pinned up the back seam.

I then tucked in the top making darts around the waist to fit the skirt to my body.

I then measured out the darts so that they were equidistant around the top of the skirt.

I sewed the darts, then the back seam.

I sewed in a zip.

I left the selvedge of the material because it kind of looked funky and meant I didn’t have to hem the bottom of the skirt.

Then I turned over the top centimetre and hemmed the waist.

Job done.

And why am I writing about this post now?

Well I’m on the fifth West Wing episode of the day and I figured I needed to look busy.

Job done.

Well winter in Perth anyway which is pretty mild.

Cool enough to wear boots. No need for a parka.

And yes I know it’s not winter yet.

And one shower does not a winter make.

Oh but wasn’t it nice to wake up to a washed world yesterday.

To not feel hot.

To wear boots to work.

Boots that have waited patiently in the bottom of my cupboard ready to jump out the first time the mercury dropped below thirty degrees.

That smell of petrichor in the air.

Is it just me?

It's iconic

Gotta love Sydney.

Well I do.

I guess it’s because I spent a couple of months at a critical age in this fair town… and because I consider Sydney to be to Perth’s somewhat brash teenage self an…

Older, gay uncle?

Worldly, confident spinster aunt?

Or is that Melbourne?

Whatever… I love Sydney.

I love the water, the casual confidence of its inhabitants, the fact you can find scrambled eggs and toast for $7 on a Sunday morning.

I know that Perth people are weeping  into their $4.50 coffees right now.

Seven bucks.

Perth prices are outrageous.

But I digress.

What was I saying?

Oh yes, Sydney.

City crush.

Loved this

Gotta love a city with grafitti like this

Loved this memorial to women who came out because of the Irish famine

She looks determined doesn't she... the new St Mary...

So I’m completely in love with Sydney again and I stay with my friend who I lived with way back in the day when I lived and partied in Sydney.

She lived in Greenwich and she still does so I figured I’d catch the ferry over for old times sake.

Those following me on twitter would have seen how the story unfolded:

Cellobella At circular quay waiting for the greenwich ferry. Life is good.

Cellobella Forgot how much I love the ferry service in sydney. #wanttoliveinsydney

Cellobella @deeleea totes. It’s such a nice way to get around. Feels like a treat not public transport.

Cellobella Lol just discovered I’m on completely the wrong ferry. It’s back to circular quay for me. #whatanidiot

Cellobella Bored of being on ferry now #navigationfail

My friend had texted me and when I said oh I was just at Watson’s Bay, rang me to tell me I’d caught a ferry going in completely the opposite direction.

It’s been twenty years since I lived in Sydney.

So I changed ferries…

Me on the RIGHT ferry

And I spent the night in Greenwich and we reminisced about old times…

Going to Rogues…

On our way out to Rogues back in 1991...

OMG yes… check out those clip-on earrings… oh dear me… such glamour.

We drank wine and discussed how we met the drummer of Air Supply and he told us that Mariah Carey was the next big thing.

We talked more about Rogues… well it was our favourite nightclub.

Hey that was a designer dress... stop laughing!

Thought you might like to see the full look.

We haven’t changed a bit!

Okay maybe a bit.

Don’t you love the tassles?

Not enough dresses these days have tassles IMHO.

This was my outfit of choice for going to the casino back in Perth – but I wore it with a waist length wig.

And then it started raining.

And I fell asleep to the sound of rain on the roof and actually I didn’t sleep well because it was soooo noisy.

Such a novelty to hear rain though.

*slaps self* This is not going to be a weather post.

Next morning I waited patiently for the rain to stop.

But it was torrential.

And, with a coffee date in the city I had to get going.

‘sif a Perth person is going to have an umbrella!

Monday morning was... wet.

I could feel the rain slide off the back of my jacket, through my top and slip down the back of my jeans.

Cl-assy.

I was wet wet wet.

But still happy to be in Sydney.

Even though I was a little over the rain.

I dried out about 3pm.

Ahhh my dear Uncle Syd.

See ya next time.

Peeps… Gay uncle?  Worldly older cousin?  What do you think?

So it’s nine o’clock on a Saturday morning.

I feel runover.

Not from excessive partying… We went out to the new state theatre last night and a civilised affair it was too.

And even though yes, I did indulge in a mojito in the late afternoon with Ali… She of the sculpture, I stopped at one.

(In fact we walked out without paying… Realised on the train going to Northbridge… Rang and apologised… Because hey, the guy made a great cocktail and we want to go back again.   Havana has become our regular. He was very nice about it btw.)

So, not feeling tired because of the cocktail…

I hate having my hair done when I look crap.

Hours of staring in the mirror looking at the bags under my eyes.

At least they serve decent coffee.

It is the western suburbs darling.

Sitting next to me is a rather dishy fellow. Whose conversation I eavesdrop on while I’m waiting for the dye to process.

Very cute.

Shame I’m not looking my best.

He has a lovely deep voice which is hard to hear over the hair dryers.

He makes eye contact with me as we listen to our cute blonde stylist chatting.  Yes we share a stylist. He is getting his hair cut while my hair dye does it’s funky wild grey covering thing.

He is very cute actually.

Business has something to do with South Africa.

Ah well.

Do you read the magazines at the hairdressers?

It’s about the only time I read fashion mags.

Today’s selection is Madison and Vogue.

I don’t bother opening them.

The stylist goes to get the clippers and he says… Must be boring waiting…

Yes.

He has a cute smile and knows it.

We chat for about two minutes as she tidies up his sideburns and then he takes off his gown and goes.

Hmmm tats.

But looking pretty pumped in his thin white tee.

…

Not my type.

Ah time for the hair wash.

My favourite bit is when they massage your scalp.

Niiiiice.

Cutting time.

The worst bit is after she dries it off she chops into it to thin it out a bit. Apparently I have very thick hair.

Ouch ouch ouch.

Still at least that means it’s nearly over for another six weeks.

So  what’s left for the day… Grocery shopping, dress sale, and the writers festival.

And that’s enough to be getting on with.

Generic beach shot because taking out a camera at the nude beach is probably not the done thing

I am doing a storytelling course (Barefaced Stories) at The Blue Room Theatre with Margot Leitman (check out one of her stories on The Moth).

Eight sessions and at the end we will have a polished story.

Each session we have homework.

The first assignment – “do something outside your comfort zone”.

This required some deep thought.

Then I remembered the time Groover and I  - in our 20s when we had hot (ish) bods – stripped off and drove naked down West Coast Highway – at least until the adreniline wore off and we thought about all the what ifs… what if we broke down? What if we get pulled over by a cop? And we quickly scuttled back home.

So I thought okay, let’s up the ante and go for a swim at Perth’s favourite nude beach – luckily not far away – Swanborne – public nudity.

First question… what does one wear to Swanborne because clearly you can’t rock up nude – does one wear bathers?

I decided to wear my bikini, as it seemed appropriate, and with towel and sunblock in hand casually strolled down the beach.

OMG!  There are naked people there!!

First thing I saw from a distance was the silhouette of a man and let me tell you he was hung.

Second question… where do I sit?

I don’t want to sit too close to anyone else but I do want to get the Swanborne experience so I don’t want to sit completely on my own and I don’t want to sit up by the dunes as I figure the creepy guys hang out there perving, so I plonk my stuff down in the middle and undress.

Well that feels a bit weird and as I slide my bikini bottoms off I’m thinking some trimming might have been in order but it’s too late now.

Lying on the beach I’m conscious of what everyone is doing.

People are moving between groups chatting, there’s a very tanned girl to my right doing a job interview on her iPhone, and there are people – clothed people – walking by all the time.

But I can’t lie on the beach forever – for one thing I can’t stay out in the sun too long and for another – well a swim is part of the challenge.

So choosing my moment I stand up and walk into the surf.

The water is cool, the surf a bit dumpy but this is no time to get into the water gingerly.

Before long I am enjoying my swim and getting chatted up by a tanned fellow in his mid forties who turns out to be the pilot of our flight home last Sunday – I kid you not.

Anyway I go back to my towel and air dry.

I notice that I’m possibly one of the younger women on the beach – hard to tell as all the women have VERY dark tans – and also, I’m not that uncomfortable.

And I notice the men – it’s hard not to.

One guy I swear has more metalwork “down there” than the Bunnings tool section.

Another guy has tats all over his body – except “down there” and frankly who can blame him.

There are men of all sizes – and that’s when I realise that actually there are way more men than women.

Why did that surprise me?

I get dressed and get up to go and as I’m leaving the pilot starts chatting to me.

Now that feels a bit weird… chatting to a completely naked man while fully dressed on the beach.

Anyway we chat for a bit and I’m thinking well this will make a great addition to my story when…

Groover walks by!

OMG and I’m chatting to a naked man!

Anyway it takes me a while to catch up with the groovy one because by the time I noticed him he was about 20 metres away and the wind is whipping away my voice and hey, I’m not that fit so running in sand isn’t very fast but eventually I catch up with him and we walk back  and I tell him about my experience and he remembers the pilot’s name and I suggest that he might like to go in for a quick dip.

He (surprisingly) agrees and we have a little swim and then start to get dressed.

Do you want to meet the pilot I ask?

The pilot is now under his umbrella – still nuded up of course – but Groover says no.

I guess meeting a naked man on the beach is outside his comfort zone.

So this is the story I tell at my storytelling class and it goes down quite well.

The next day I decide to go back to the beach – because it was fun, there was quite a nice community feel to it and I was still on a high from the day before but it’s different.

For one thing it is much windier so there are fewer people and there are only two other women.

That friendly community atmosphere has blown away with the wind and what is left feels somewhat seedy.

The pilot is there and comes over to chat but it all feels a bit wrong.

I go home after about 20 minutes and shower.

If I go back – I won’t go alone.

Besides – I had my next assignment to do – ” to stray from my routine”.

Ah but that is another story.

Christmas toes

No.

Not my underpants.

My son gave me a pair of minimalist footwear for Christmas.

Footwear with bling.

Waiting for the blonding agent to work

So this summer my baby wants to be blonder.

We went down the supermarket to get one of those streaking kits with one of those caps that you pull through bits of hair but of course who wants to follow instructions!?

I’ve been to the hairdresser.

I’ve seen them do foils.

Piece of cake.

I can do that.

So we cut up strips of foil (a bit thin… thicker foil would be easier to work with), got out my comb with the sticky bit at the end.

And by sticky I mean stick-like not covered in goo.

And away we went.

As you’ll see in the video, Miss Dippity was a little worried.

“Can you book me into the proper hairdresser tomorrow Mum?”

Pfft.

Just wait and see I said calmly.

(OMG I’m a bit worried I said inside)

But the result was…

Not bad for a beginner...

Okay.

And probably not blonde enough for my daughter.

Sigh.

Still I reckon I passed my apprenticeship:

Wife, mother, radio presenter, manager, actress, cardplayer, zumba dancer, cook, nurse, seamstress and now hairdresser.

Booyah!

(I don’t claim to do any of them particularly well)

Yes that is little old me in SIZE 5 jeans!

OMFG!

I can fit into my 13 year old daughter’s size 5 (US) jeans!

Sure I can’t breathe.

And luckily they are lo-rise so all the wobbly bits squeeze “above the line”.

But still.

Size freaking 5!

I am happy.

Now why am I suddenly craving a muffin…

C'mon confess! I know there are more than two of us...

I thought it was just me that kept a pair of tweezers in my car but the other day I discovered another close friend of mine had the same secret.

Yes we’re both (cough) forty-something (cough) and yes occasionally we’ve sat at the lights… looked in the visor mirror and almost spat out our take-away coffee.

Ugh! 

What is THAT doing growing THERE?!!!

The problem is that at 40-something, not only do you start growing hair in unusual places but your eyesight is failing.

So it is rare for you to notice that stray hair until you are faced with the mega-magnification of that little mirror on the inside of your visor.

And even if you did notice that rogue – wtf is that doing on my face – hair… quite often,  because you need glasses, you can’t do anything about it.

Have you ever tried to pluck your eyebrows, needing glasses?

Trust me - it can’t be done.

Hence the tweezers in the car.

The ultra-magnification of the mirror allows you to see the wretched rogue hairs without glasses.

Yes, you look like an idiot at the lights…

But at least you don’t look like Wicked Witch of the East when you get to work.

Job done.

Interviewer:  So perhaps you could tell us your greatest weakness…

Applicant:  Well I guess my greatest weakness is that I can get caught up in a job and feel compelled to finish it up – to the point where I will lose track of time.

I started making a dress for my baby girl last night and found I just couldn’t stop!

At 1.15 I thought I should call it a night.

At 3am said baby girl woke me up with a headache.

I am soooooooooooooo tired.

Hey but the dress is coming together!

I’m wearing a dress to work today which is one I picked up at the Bindaring Red Cross Sale three or four years ago.

I haven’t been able to fit into it for a couple of years but tried it on the other night and yay – it fits!

And boy have I been getting comments today.

Loving that.

I guess the boobage would have something to do with it and the fact that I have my dominatrix boots on…

For me it’s also about success in losing the 6 kilos necessary to squeeze back into it.

I’m getting my wardrobe back!

Probably, if you’re female and reading this, you will be the type that has ALWAYS worn matching underwear.

You know… your bra matching your knickers.

Yeah.

I thought so.

Well not me I’m afraid.

I’m the sort of gal that visits Marks and Spencers when visiting the UK and buys several packets of undies to last me YEARS between trips.

If there isn’t ten in a pack I feel ripped off.

Tragic I know.

I mean, how many cotton bombers does one girl need?

Last week I decided to grow the F up.

I’m 43 and the days of mismatched underwear are over.

I know what you’re thinking… what WAS I thinking…

Well I never really saw the point of spending heaps on underwear – who sees it? – but ever since Groover bought me those bright red Christmas knickers and bra – fondly nicknamed “The Sex Pants” – well I’ve been thinking how great I feel wearing them.

You know… sexy.

So the other day I went and bought a set of seriously gorgeous underwear.

Hey I’ve lost four kilos… they actually look good on me.

They are very nice.

Very very nice.

And so I’ve made a pact with myself.

From now on girl – matching underwear.

And just to make it a tiny bit easier (cheaper) I’ve also decided to buy two sets of knickers with every bra.

So now interweb you can relax, safe in the knowledge that should I be run over by a bus tomorrow, my mother won’t be embarrassed by my knickers.

I bet you’re relieved.

What a week!

Two funerals – which to be fair were both uplifting in their own ways.  An odd mixture of celebration and sadness and seeing people at their most real.

I do like this trend of personal funerals rather than the traditional church burials – you really feel you know the person.

As for mine?

I don’t care.

Cremate me in a cardboard box and play Yo-Yo Ma’s Bach Cello Suite 1 as you throw my ashes off the ridge at Ennuin (or wherever),  that’d do for me.  It’s up to you. Funerals are for the living not the dead. 

I stopped to smell the roses on the way to work one day this week.  That’s what funerals do for you.

It didn’t smell but it did look pretty.

I wasn’t going to talk about funerals today, but I guess they have been a big part of this week.

My crazy protein diet is still on.

Tomatoes and bacon for breakfast – my favourite breakfast and one I rarely have because… well it’s bacon. 

But bacon is protein and therefore allowed.

I’m losing weight.

The girls are going.

Gee it’s been fun having them.  I can see some lingerie purchases will soon be necessary.

Sigh.

But my waist is coming back.  Yay!

I might even be able to bear to buy some scales.

In other news, the other day I was in the city and came across a Free Iran protest.

This I could tell from the banners. 

All the speeches were in Arabic so can’t tell you exactly what the protest is about.

It made me feel good to be an Australian.

How we allow everyone to have their moment to speak publically about issues they care about.

I think we’d all like a free Iran.

So it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow… have any plans?

I’m planning a visit to the beauty parlour – an annual overhaul?

I do hate going and have people fuss over me.

Yes I realise that that makes me less of a woman.

Let me check my care factor… oh… zero.

So I’m stealing myself for some major fuss.

Standby for a sleeker, browner, glossier Cellobella.

Just like me, but better.

This last couple of weeks I’ve realised something profound.

Well… profound for me.

I’ve realised that I’ve made a mental shift from last year.

This year, I’m saying yes to life.

But more than that, for once in my life I feel as if I can set goals and make them happen.

Sure they are not huge goals, but last year at my lowest ebb, I could not even work out what I wanted to do, about anything.

It’s me time.

I guess the archeological dig was the first big thing.

I wanted to go on a scientific expedition – to get the feeling I got when I was 16 up in the Kimberley canoeing down crocodile infested rivers.

Yes that meant leaving my family for a week.

Imagine that.

Going away. On a holiday. Without my family.

!!

It was so empowering to do something just for myself.

Not a business trip. Not a family trip. No obligations to anyone except me.

I felt like I was back at Uni again.

Second – I booked Groover and I into Theatresports workshops (and performances).

I’ve always enjoyed drama but again haven’t done any since Uni.

It is so much fun. I can only think I’m an idiot not to explore this before.

Third, at work I have realised that what gives me the most job satisfaction and why I have always wanted the job I have now to the metro equivalent is I love being out and about in Western Australia.

I love the landscapes – so different from one end to the next.

I love the people.

I love taking photographs and sharing them online.

I love driving.

The other day driving back from Geraldton, listening to Mumford and Sons (my latest obsession) practically all the way back, it felt so good to be behind the wheel, in charge of my own destiny, winding my way through the coastal heath.

Four and a half hours flew by.

I didn’t stop once.

(Btw – that was four complete run-throughs of the CD plus many repeats of my favourite bits… ah but that is for another post… don’t want to bore you completely.)

I think you can see it in my face.

I feel like I am shining out of every pore.

I am in love with my life.

And I have so much energy.

Look at me.

Here at 6am on a Sunday morning blogging!

What’s up with that?

I feel fantastic and I can only hope that people around me can soak some of that up.

…

Hmm reading that back it sounds a bit manic.

I promise you I’m not a manic depressive.

Just drunk on life.

Which is a lot better than being hungover.

Oh I must tell you about last night before I leave you today.

Groover and I went out with some friends to the Oxford Hotel – nice makeover by the way guys.

Getting ready I was quietly going mental – all my clothes seemed so old and the girls going along were half my age.

In fact add their ages together and you get my age.

Gulp.

Anyway I pulled out an old but transparent top and wore my red bra underneath.

Yes a little bit racy but what’s the point of being slightly overweight and having a kick arse cleavage if you don’t take it out for a spin now and again?

Anyway long story short – I felt great – and even better when I heard the (was it surprise?) in one of the guys’ voice – You look hot tonight!

Yeah I did.

Take that young 20 somethings!

But maybe that was my “yes” light shining through.

I feel… dangerous.

Watch out.

Okay maybe not ten…

In many ways now that I’ve decided to dye my hair again I feel as if I’ve given up.

But…

I think it’s better to feel it rather than look it!

I had lunch today with a friend who I haven’t seen in about six months.  She has a new man, is going for a new job and looks happier than I’ve seen her in a while.

I love that about female friendships.

You might not see eachother for ages as life – lets face it – does get in the way but when you get back together it’s as if you have been in touch every week.

I guess male friendships are the same?

For bloggers out there… I’m writing this on Wordpress 2.7.  I like it.  I like the layout, the groovy new functions like get plugin – oh that makes life easy, and well… all of it.

You might see a few new functions on the site as I’ve got lots of new toys to play with.

Let me know what you think, especially if it gets too cluttered.

If you use WordPress and haven’t upgraded – do it.  It’s worth it

And oh, Twitter.  I am fast realising what a time-waster that is.  I hardly had time to scratch myself between tweets today.  Lucky I had the day off!

It’s so hot.

So hot I can’t think, I can’t breathe.

The sweat pools under my breasts, slides over my stomach and drops on my thighs as I type, I’m sticking to the leather chair.

I can’t bear the thought of organising dinner, of even thinking about dinner, which might be a good thing except for the two teenagers who are hungry after their first day back at school.

I’m wearing a gossimer thin sarong tied in a knot above my breasts – it’s too hot even for cloth on my shoulders, for a bra.  And I’m wearing undies.

Frankly I feel over-dressed but my children became unexpectedly prudish about a mother cooking in the nude.

“Is that er… even hygenic?”

And to complete the misery not only am I about to melt like the Wicked Witch of the West into a puddle on the floor but I’m finally over my grey hair.

It’s so grey.

Ever since I read Going Grey last year, I’ve been on the road to letting my hair grow out, that’s partly why I got the short hair cut, but you know… I just don’t think I’m ready.

Bad enough that I need to be exercising more, controlling my intake more (note how I didn’t say the d-word), that I need to increase my reading glasses strength… I’m only 42 for crying out loud – I’m not ready.

I was watching Oprah last night – Mum taped the program and saved it for me to watch – and it was all about embracing your age – but none of the stars, guests that she interviewed had grey hair.  Not even any of the “real people” had grey hair – except for one sad grandmother who has suffered from depression ever since her kids left home.

I don’t want to be in the sad camp!

So I’m going to dye my hair again.  Get back on that treadmill of dyeing and roots and throwing money at the problem.

I’ll let you know how I go on Saturday.