Ever said to yourself "how hard can it be?" or, "I'll give that a go, that's a great idea what could possibly go wrong". I like to think that Scott (of the Antartic fame) probably said the same thing, perhaps to his wife over breakfast, when a little disgruntled with her husband's holiday plans she probably said something like "Well why don't we try Corfu darling? I hear the weather's delightful." . . . But no Scott put his size 9's firmly down and insisted on a boy's jolly to the ends of the earth! . . . I now know how he feels.
I can't be sure what came over me but one Friday afternoon, I found myself in the bathroom, with a hair high-lighting kit and a bin bag round my shoulders in front of the mirror and hopeful that in 45 mins time I could turn my mousey grey hair cloud into Claudia Schiffer's ice blonde silky locks. The resulting look bore the uncanny resemblence to the bastard offspring of an angry badger and feral farm cat. The love child of Derek Acorah and Cilla Black. Or as my husband put it "it's reminiscent of badly varnished cheap pine, viewed under tube lighting".
My husband took pity on me and with the clever use of a head scarf origami and sunglasses rushed me to the nearest salon for major hair surgery.
But with age and adventures in home hairdressing comes the realisation that the older you get the harder you have to work to maintain some glamour in your life. Thankfully my social life is limited to Facebook, text message and email and I have become accustomed to pretending that I'm really 5'8" (I had a growth spurt after leaving school), I'm a size 8 (not touched a carb since '92) and I'm a natural blonde (who would have though that pregnancy could change your hair THAT much). Sadly my dark lies were uncovered, at a recent family Christening my photo was taken and I was tagged on Facebook. Had I have known I would have worn spanx, had my roots done, maybe even invested in a hairbrush but sadly my photos and the truth is out there for all to see.
The situation is made all the more worse by the fact that many of my friends are younger, skinnier and just generally more glamorous than me. With two young kids I am constantly fighting a battle against, baby snot, hair encrusted with rusk and sleep deprivation. So you can I imagine my annoyance when I bumped into a friend recently who told me how devastated she was to discover that post pregnancy she was now a size 10. SIZE 10! I hate women who complain about being a size 10. It's rather like telling me that my aspiration for a four star Caribbean cruise and a Range Rover is their equivalent of a pedalo ride at Weston Super Mare and a push bike. I was so happy to have preserved what was left of my figure after my second baby, and was monumentally destroyed when said friend found herself crying in a Primark fitting room unable to squeeze into a size 6.
But there is a happy end to my Facebook tagging woes. An old school friend contacted me through a private message simply stating "loved the photos of you, you look so happy" . . . Heart warmin stuff.
. . . . when she says "happy" do you think she meant FAT!
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