For the past couple of days I have been feeling Grognonne, not I hasten to add Madame Grognonne, which would be a totally different thing all together. Nope I have had, as the say here a touch of the cockroaches.., a fit of the glums and I am royally peed off because chaps that just ain't me.
I put it down to the book I am reading, forced upon me by a friend who said , the gleam of a zealot in her eye, "oh you must read this"OK, looks promising thinks I , well "One woman's search for everything across Italy India and Indonesia" certainly sounds as if it might be a rollicking read n'est pas? I like travel logs. Ha!! Travel log my arse!!
It is one of those books..one of those terribly worthy American tomes on the road to enlightenment, written to do you good and help you grow. It is the introspective examination, by the female author ,of her own fluff filled belly button in search of a better understanding of what lies therein and why. I am not given to navel contemplation.
Naval contemplation is another matter of course. I have happily, in my time spent an hour or so of harmless contemplation of the worlds various and numerous matelots in their jolly attire, or not as the case may be. I 0once went out with a Brazilian sailor .He had a wonderful uniform complete with a sort of woolly bobble on his hat Ah me those were the days .
I digress. The book in question is entitled, beguilingly, "eat pray love".. and is by Marybeth something or other, no I tell a lie its by someone called Elizabeth Gilbert, see ,its so wonderful I cant even remember the writers name . I should have seen the signs when she commenced with " An introduction or How this book works or the 109th bead" and given up then. Time (note not the THE Times) described it as "An engaging intelligent and highly entertaining memoir". I hate to think what they were comparing it to, possible the San Francisco telephone directory.
Well regardless of whether or not she is a "Readable Funny writer", which the Washington Post assures me she is, she depressed me no end so I decided a boost to the old ego was needed. A spot of pandering to the feminine side, a little bit of self indulgence warranted , thus, this morning after doing two lots of school runs and various chores at double quick time I trotted off, eyes a glow and armed with a sense of purpose, to have my hair done.
I don't do the makeup, hair "oohh pretty shoes must have now "thingy so this is a red letter day. I visit hair dressers under duress or in dire emergencies . Those of you old enough and sad enough to remember one of my first blogs concerning my argument with the village hairdresser regarding whether or not my hair is naturally curly will sigh sagely and know any trip made by me to the hairdresser is an act of hope over experience. I do not do hairdressers well. It is long established that I missed that gene along with the shopping one . My sister got them. This is grossly unfair as she also got the tall slim blond genes as well.
En route to Hairdresser I note my mind is wandering badly, off dans la lune . I get to the hairdresser to find the one man in world who understands my hair is occupied, but oh happy day, not so occupied that he can not spare a minute to explain, complete with handsignals, to his assistant ,that my hair needs this ,this and definitely that done to it so that is OK. Now problem is assistant is about 10 months pregnant . I notice this as she has great difficult getting close enough to the chair to reach me her bump being in the way. Ive been there had three little dears and know all about braincells going AWOL add to the equation then that with my brain going AWOL too and we find ourselves drifting in dangerous waters without a pilot. Our combined lack of attention on this fine morning inevitably comes to the not so pretty pass .
She snips my hair abstractedly for about 15 minutes I stare out of the window and wonder when it will stop raining. I snap back into reality about the same time as she does and we both stare at my head in horrid stifled shocked sort of way at the sudden realisation that both of us thought the other was concentrating on the hair cut where as she was probably mentally choosing bay names and I was contemplating whether I really needed to go food shopping afterwards or not..
Result was that ,alas too late ,we both realise I have very short hair. Actually, very very, short hair. Of the sort of style revolting french peasants used to give to suspected collaborators in world war 2. On close inspection I suspect they trained her. We both looked at my hair in silence. The only man understands my hair looks up from the perming rods he is inserting in an old woman's hair and lets out an audible eek sound. The Salon is so quiet you could hear a curl drop..if I had any left to drop.
I am wondering whether I had all those furrows etched into my forehead before I started practising eyebrow raising techniques earlier in the week and she wondering how woman underneath her scissors has magically been transformed into a saggy faced ancient tortoise, her head sticking out of the leaded apron as if it were a carapace. On a side note ,why is it hairdressers now stick lead weighted rubber mats about ones neck when they cut ones hair ? Is there something radio active in the hair gel they use? Matters were made worse by her liberal application of a wax thingy which is meant to make one's natural curls bounce and glimmer but made mine curl up their toes into tiny fetal lumps like terrified baby hedgehogs.
Then the daft bint sprayed it.
So today my poor hair has been washed with toxic shampoo, conditioned to within an inch of its life, layered and cut , gunked and sprayed. It is not happy. Neither am I. I tip her because I can't stand to be rude and spend next hour standing lost in a space in aisle nine of the supermarche staring blankly at magazines. I think its the radio active gel working its way into my brain. Eventually I go home.
After about an hour Husband, who has been looking quizzically at me from odd angles asks if I have had my hair cut. "Yes" I say "OH" he says..and that about sums it up. I am wondering if I can sue the "witty Compulsively readable Ms Gilbert" for her part in my decline and fall and what words Eldest (who is so well endowed with shopping ,hair ,and makeup genes that she is unable to pass a shoes shop without clapping her hands in glee and jumping up and down like an excited puppy) will find to describe my hair.
If she says "oh" too I am going right out buy a large paper bag to wear.
I put it down to the book I am reading, forced upon me by a friend who said , the gleam of a zealot in her eye, "oh you must read this"OK, looks promising thinks I , well "One woman's search for everything across Italy India and Indonesia" certainly sounds as if it might be a rollicking read n'est pas? I like travel logs. Ha!! Travel log my arse!!
It is one of those books..one of those terribly worthy American tomes on the road to enlightenment, written to do you good and help you grow. It is the introspective examination, by the female author ,of her own fluff filled belly button in search of a better understanding of what lies therein and why. I am not given to navel contemplation.
Naval contemplation is another matter of course. I have happily, in my time spent an hour or so of harmless contemplation of the worlds various and numerous matelots in their jolly attire, or not as the case may be. I 0once went out with a Brazilian sailor .He had a wonderful uniform complete with a sort of woolly bobble on his hat Ah me those were the days .
I digress. The book in question is entitled, beguilingly, "eat pray love".. and is by Marybeth something or other, no I tell a lie its by someone called Elizabeth Gilbert, see ,its so wonderful I cant even remember the writers name . I should have seen the signs when she commenced with " An introduction or How this book works or the 109th bead" and given up then. Time (note not the THE Times) described it as "An engaging intelligent and highly entertaining memoir". I hate to think what they were comparing it to, possible the San Francisco telephone directory.
Well regardless of whether or not she is a "Readable Funny writer", which the Washington Post assures me she is, she depressed me no end so I decided a boost to the old ego was needed. A spot of pandering to the feminine side, a little bit of self indulgence warranted , thus, this morning after doing two lots of school runs and various chores at double quick time I trotted off, eyes a glow and armed with a sense of purpose, to have my hair done.
I don't do the makeup, hair "oohh pretty shoes must have now "thingy so this is a red letter day. I visit hair dressers under duress or in dire emergencies . Those of you old enough and sad enough to remember one of my first blogs concerning my argument with the village hairdresser regarding whether or not my hair is naturally curly will sigh sagely and know any trip made by me to the hairdresser is an act of hope over experience. I do not do hairdressers well. It is long established that I missed that gene along with the shopping one . My sister got them. This is grossly unfair as she also got the tall slim blond genes as well.
En route to Hairdresser I note my mind is wandering badly, off dans la lune . I get to the hairdresser to find the one man in world who understands my hair is occupied, but oh happy day, not so occupied that he can not spare a minute to explain, complete with handsignals, to his assistant ,that my hair needs this ,this and definitely that done to it so that is OK. Now problem is assistant is about 10 months pregnant . I notice this as she has great difficult getting close enough to the chair to reach me her bump being in the way. Ive been there had three little dears and know all about braincells going AWOL add to the equation then that with my brain going AWOL too and we find ourselves drifting in dangerous waters without a pilot. Our combined lack of attention on this fine morning inevitably comes to the not so pretty pass .
She snips my hair abstractedly for about 15 minutes I stare out of the window and wonder when it will stop raining. I snap back into reality about the same time as she does and we both stare at my head in horrid stifled shocked sort of way at the sudden realisation that both of us thought the other was concentrating on the hair cut where as she was probably mentally choosing bay names and I was contemplating whether I really needed to go food shopping afterwards or not..
Result was that ,alas too late ,we both realise I have very short hair. Actually, very very, short hair. Of the sort of style revolting french peasants used to give to suspected collaborators in world war 2. On close inspection I suspect they trained her. We both looked at my hair in silence. The only man understands my hair looks up from the perming rods he is inserting in an old woman's hair and lets out an audible eek sound. The Salon is so quiet you could hear a curl drop..if I had any left to drop.
I am wondering whether I had all those furrows etched into my forehead before I started practising eyebrow raising techniques earlier in the week and she wondering how woman underneath her scissors has magically been transformed into a saggy faced ancient tortoise, her head sticking out of the leaded apron as if it were a carapace. On a side note ,why is it hairdressers now stick lead weighted rubber mats about ones neck when they cut ones hair ? Is there something radio active in the hair gel they use? Matters were made worse by her liberal application of a wax thingy which is meant to make one's natural curls bounce and glimmer but made mine curl up their toes into tiny fetal lumps like terrified baby hedgehogs.
Then the daft bint sprayed it.
So today my poor hair has been washed with toxic shampoo, conditioned to within an inch of its life, layered and cut , gunked and sprayed. It is not happy. Neither am I. I tip her because I can't stand to be rude and spend next hour standing lost in a space in aisle nine of the supermarche staring blankly at magazines. I think its the radio active gel working its way into my brain. Eventually I go home.
After about an hour Husband, who has been looking quizzically at me from odd angles asks if I have had my hair cut. "Yes" I say "OH" he says..and that about sums it up. I am wondering if I can sue the "witty Compulsively readable Ms Gilbert" for her part in my decline and fall and what words Eldest (who is so well endowed with shopping ,hair ,and makeup genes that she is unable to pass a shoes shop without clapping her hands in glee and jumping up and down like an excited puppy) will find to describe my hair.
If she says "oh" too I am going right out buy a large paper bag to wear.
The photograph is of a Giant Galapagos Tortoise, imagine it with a tightly curled mop on the very top of its head and that is roughly what my new hair cut looks like..it is also the nearest you are ever going to get to seeing a photograph of me.
