It’s been ten days since my last post.
During that brief spell I’ve bypassed the temptation to fabricate feel-good filler, linky my growing archives or cop out altogether and beg a review opportunity in favour of absolute radio silence.
Amidst the general chaos of starting back up at university there’s been family visitations, unwelcome letters in brown envelopes, severe time management issues, some fabulous days spent exploring Edinburgh, a persistent chest cold and one ill thought out hairdo.
My inability to hammer out so much as a half hour in which to document these occurences is weighing heavy on mind and so I approach today’s blog as though a lapsed Catholic, awoken from a dream of brimstone and sneaking in a long overdue confession (just in case).
When I found out I was pregnant with Frank I knew, categorically, I was in no way ready for a child. Luckily my biology was far more clued up than my inner voice and it turns out I function fairly passably under pressure.
You can imagine my dismay, therefore, when I convinced myself I was equipped for a drastic style change and it turns out I 100% wasn’t. A matter on which my physiology and psyche heartily agreed.
It began as a brief flirtation with natural hair colour, this rapidly spiralled into a desire to go all out ‘feral child’ and get dreadlocks.
After a consultation with one of three local locticians, I was persuaded to bypass that awkward baby dread stage and have permanent extensions crochet hooked in – the quotes for both procedures being the same with the additional cost of buying the hair.
Sod it! I though, if I’m spending several hours in a salon I may as well fork out the extra few quid and make my over processed hair look half way acceptable.
Therein lies my first life lesson learned, one I now readily recall telling my son in regards to climbing the wrong way up slides – “No shortcuts!”
It took almost twelve hours to wrestle my hair into submission – in essence I sacrificed a day better spent and just short of £100 in the pursit of my perfect, unkempt locks.
I suffered the following waking hours (and a great many sleeping ones too) convinced they were going to fall out, angered by their increading fluffiness, calculating just what fresh hell I had signed up for maintenance wise, knocking myself a little ill with tales of mildew and crushed by the guilt upon discovering my ‘human’ hair was most likely sourced less than ethically.
Give it time, soothed the internet forums…
…but by the pricking of my thumbs (and itching of my scalp) I knew I had fucked up.
This was not the dream I had bought into.
And so the second of my epiphanies arises; if it’s making you miserable, stop doing it.
As of lunchtime today, I did and feel infinitely better for it.
All in, it was an expensive cock up. Quite frankly (in light of my latest university funding blow) one I could readily have done without but it has passed.
If I am adult enough to be wholly responsible for another human being then so too am I adult enough to proclaim loudly “I’m an absolute tit sometimes” but I should never feel obligated to remain in a detrimental situation ‘just because’.
I know full well there are a number of people reading this now, shaking their heads and preparing to call and give me a proper bollocking. Please don’t be offended when I can’t help but laugh in response.
My current look may not be quite everyones cup of tea but, like many things, it’s only temporary. The foundations I have laid for a fresh start in both an emotional and stylistic capacity are not.