The Kindest Cut of All

It had to be done! There was no two ways about it. No more procrastinating, no more dithering, no more asking 'What would you do?' It HAD to come of and the sooner the better.

I'm talking about my hair of course. My long, long, (down to my bum long) thick, heavy hair. I mean really, at fifty plus, four feet eleven inches tall (tall?) and well, erm a very round apple shape, I was begining to resemble Cousin It of Addams Family fame. Worse, Cousin It having a bad hair day.

 

I couldn't do a darn thing with it. Up-does which look like an after thought are not my forte. You know the things I mean; those swirly, tendrily, casually-twisted-into-a-knot styles which some women can do without the aid of a mirror and look all ready for the Red Carpet and gangs of eager photographers.

No, my 'signature' look was a low pony tail, or, with the aid of a friendly niece, a long plait with wispy bits sticking out because of the layers I'd had cut in last year in a vain attempt at tidiness. The only other styles open to me which I could do myself were two long plaits like a German fräulein from the thirties, or two pig tails….if I wanted to look like Baby Jane, with my cat Dave providing the rats.

Bette Davis as Baby Jane Hudson

And hair, especially long hair gets everywhere. In the sink when I'm washing up, coating the walls of the shower cubicle, blocking the drains and in Dave's food. But he might like that…it's a nice bit of fibre for him when the rats prove elusive. And I was forever hoovering up balls of hair which had mysteriously appeared adhered to the carpet and which, in turn clogged up the nozzle.

No, I was pretty fed up, so, after weeks (nay, months) of dithering, I finally decided it had to go.

Like many women I do not like visiting a salon. I feel so self conscious and awkward surrounded by all those trendy young things with their designer hair, alarming make-up and multiple piercings. And the mirrors make me look older and more saggy and baggy than ever. Not a great boost to my already low self esteem.

And even with the bit of slap I apply in an attempt to look a bit decent, I still end up looking awful. Mascara begins to run after the hair washing ritual and with the ghastly black plastic cape around my (by now sagging) shoulders, I want to die with horror. It's even worse if you're having 'foils' to highlight your hair. You end up resembling a packed lunch.

And you can't hold a conversation. With all the blow dryers wooshing and hissing, the constant chatter and the water dribbling into your ears, it's impossible to get beyond the 'Are-you-going-away-this-year-doing-anything-nice-this-week-end' stage; not to mention the overpowering stench of chemicals, so I opted for a mobile hairdresser. And it was heavenly.

I washed my hair before the hairdresser arrived so no straining backwards over a basin with my feet dangling a foot off the ground. And we could TALK in comfort and without shouting at each other or nodding and grinning inanely. And she did a fantastic job. My hair was put into a last pony tail and cut off ready to send to a children's charity which provides wigs to young people who've lost their hair through illness or after having chemotherapy.

My hair is now in a short bob. I look and feel so much better. A little bit like the sheep who hid away and avoided being shorn for six years. And I look younger and much less baggy and saggy. My cut off pony tail was plaited and sent off to Little Princesses Charity and I certainly felt better knowing my hair may be put to good use.

So…happy days and happy new hair-do. Now I'll save a fortune in shampoo and conditioner and the vacuum cleaner may last a few more years. It's all good, folks.

 

 

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Summer Woes 

There is an old saying here in England that Summer is ‘Three fine days and a thunder storm’. Well, this summer, we have had our three fine days (although not consecutively) and some decent storms in the East Anglian area when, on Friday, June the 5th,  the weather forum I belong to (more of that later) was a-buzz with excitement. And no wonder really, when storms, especially the long lasting or all night variety are as rare as hens teeth these days. Just like the nice weather really. 

  
I say these days because storms and, indeed real, seasonal summer weather, seemed to be much more prevalent in my childhood; when every day of the six week summer school break was filled with warmth and sunshine. And, after days of endless blue sky and sun, the inevitable, sometimes violent,  thunder storms lasted for hours and filled my poor little mother with absolute terror. 

And the accompanying heavy rain often flooded our basement flat because the ancient drains just couldn’t cope. But we shrugged our shoulders, bailed out the rain water, lifted the (unfitted) carpets, lit the coal fires to dry out the rooms and carried on….until next time. 

However, to get back to summer? 2015, I have just one question…..Where is it?   Flaming June it is not. Every morning it’s like the meteorological version of ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’. Chilly, damp and miserable. It’s enough to make the most ardent patriot up sticks and move to warmer climes. And where you don’t need to wrap up in thick winter woollies at six am when you pad downstairs to make a cuppa. (Mainly because the cat insists on the back door being left open….as cats do) So I stand shivering over the kettle while an Arctic blast rushes through the house and raindrops the size of £2 coins splatter the newly bought, tartan doormat. Grrrrr! 

And now…here we are on Midsummer Day and it’s dull, overcast and windy. Oh, we have had about an hours worth of sunshine and it is warm. But for June it is still bloody awful. And after tonight…the darkness begins to slowly draw in again. Longer nights, shorter days but at least we won’t see much difference in the weather. Unless we have an Indian Summer when the warmth of September and October wraps one in a soft mantle of gentle Autumnal heat. I love being at the seaside on days like that. 

But we still have the rest of June, and July and August for the weather to redeem its self. When we might experience some hot sunny days with gentle breezes just to take the edge off. And those warm, balmy evenings filled with the scents of roses, honeysuckle and newly mown grass. And the silence of an English country night when all one can hear is a dog barking in the distance, the rustle of trees as they sway in the warm, fragrant breeze. 


  



And then…another, more ominous sound is heard. 

That sinister, low growl in the distance. The first flickers of lightning on the horizon. And then…the first huge splodges of rain land on the parched, dusty earth…and into your pint. 

Flaming June indeed. 

If you like talking about the weather to like-minded people. Whether you like snow, sun, thunder or hurricanes…then visit This Site  and join in the fun and discussions. You are guaranteed a very warm welcome. And…..you don’t even have to be an English weather lover to join. 

Have a good summer whatever your weather preference. ⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️