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.
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.
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…
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.
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.
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.
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.
Don’t you hate it when someone asks you: “Well what do you think?”
Be it a new car, tv, dress, pair of jeans, website, quality of card play or haircut it is a minefield most of us fear to tread.
Cars for instance. For me they are a form of transport. Sure I love that new car smell and shiny leather uphostery. I especially like blue dashboard lights and expandible cup holders but I’m hard pressed to tell a Honda from a Mazda from a Mazerati (they are the flat ones aren’t they?).
I’m not one for appreciating the line of the spoilers or whatever they are. I’m never going to fall into that “pimp my car” category, no neon lights under my chassy baby.
Same with television sets. I like them big and flat but do I know the difference between a Panasonic and a Sony? No. Can I really see better definition in one over the other? No.
So don’t ask me to comment on cars and tellys… or computers – can I tell what graphics card you’ve installed? No.
Does my bum look big in this?
When you don’t have the jargon and you don’t want to hurt the asker’s feelings – what do you do?
It’s the classic – does my bum look big in this scenario?
Frankly you don’t want the answer – you just want appreciation.
So that’s why you’ll hear me comment on the sleek lines of your turbo charged machine, the definition so crisp you feel you could pull a hair out of that actor’s head, the lack of lag time in that grisly-so-violent-I-can’t-bear-to-look game you’re playing.
Do I really have an opinion? No.
But I care about you and I want to be enthusiastic about the things you like.
Which leads to the real subject of this post.
My new haircut.
It’s a little… short. But just think of it as always-having-my-hair-up.
Groover has an honesty in comments policy – which is good because I know when he really likes something but it’s bad because I also know when he really doesn’t.
I’m a little nervous.
So here’s my strategy:
I’ve texted him from the hair salon: “Don’t freak out. I’ve got short hair!”
My plan is to get him to imagine the worst – some scary Prisoner (Cell Block H) style – and then when he walks in the door the reality will be a relief.
That woman up the back looks scary doesn’t she?
I don’t look that scary…
Update: he’s either a very convincing liar… or he liked it! (my strategy worked… bwah ha ha!)
By the way, the title of today’s post comes from a great song by Christine Lavin – check out the lyrics! Classic.
Today you find your correspondent at the hair salon washing that grey right out of her hair. I got up early to act as scorer at The Orchid Hunter’s cricket match. Four hours of morse code later (have you ever scored a cricket match? It’s all about dots, trust me), we lost and I joined the coven for lunch.
The Coven is The Poshi and the Software Engineer and I and we haven’t seen each other for ages so a lunch was in order, sandwiched (omg I’ve just wet myself with the wittiness of that pun) between cricket and my hair appointment. Much gossip was shared.
So this is me pictured with the grey remover in place and foil on the arms of my glasses. It kind of looks like there’s a small man on my shoulder sticking his arm in my brain.
The result is a little boofier than I thought but I think will be okay in the end. Afterwards I picked up a tray of peaches – that is the real hallmark of Christmas! And dropped in to see The Poshi for a quick pre-dinner drinkie. It’s good to have her home if only for a couple of days. 🙂
Groover bought me two wigs for my birthday. What an awesome present! I love wearing wigs and up until now only had a blonde one to have fun with.
I wore the black one to watch number one son play cricket yesterday and my friend said … how on earth did you have time to get to a hairdresser (as she’d seen me at 6pm the night before and it was now 8am in the morning).
And before you start worrying… no I don’t have a dread disease… apart from ridiculous amounts of grey hair… I just like dressing up.
I’m going to wear the red one to Groover’s Christmas Party where I’m playing a saucy barmaid called Mad Rose (they have a pirate theme going on). Can’t wait!