I went to the hairdressers yesterday and when I laughed at something the hairdresser said as she was cutting my hair, I noticed there were definite wrinkles around my eyes. Quite a few of them in fact. Good grief!
(I have just read ‘Knocked Out By My Nunga-Nungas’ – for research purposes you understand – and I am now walking round saying things like ‘Good grief!’, ‘I’m doing this out of sheer desperadoes’ and ‘He has reached alarming levels of bonkerosity’.)
Anyway, is it me or is it impossible to look good in those mirrors they have at hairdressers? Sometimes I stare in disbelief that that is me staring back and yes, there’s no getting away from it, I really do look like that.
So there they were – the hairdressers – with their clothes and their hair and their make up (I’m sure one bloke was wearing black eyeliner). I mooched in wearing old jeans, an old pink jumper and old boots which were once suede but now look like leather as so much of the suede has rubbed off (or fallen off after losing the will to cling on any more).
(I have been a freelance copywriter and personal trainer for the past 12 years. Neither of these professions are advised if you want a regular source of income. As a result, I have very little money and any money I do have goes on books. I think I have some sort of medical addiction. I have holes in my jeans and what do I do when I have a spare £20? Do I save it to buy new clothes? Of course not. I buy ‘1001 Children’s Books You Must Read Before You Grow Up’ and walk around half naked for the next 6 months).
So, I walked into the hairdressers and immediately longed to be wearing something different. Something that said in no uncertain terms;
This is a woman to contend with!
This is a woman who looks after herself.
This is a woman who is going places!
I emerged from the hairdressers and walked home, pondering this state of affairs.