There have been many occasions, and times during my life, when I have been reminded of those lyrics from Sweet Charity…if they could see me now that little gang of mine, and as I write this I am once again reminded of them. Because if you could see me now you would probably crack-up.
No, I’m not wearing a wet tea towel around my mush while I avoid the migraine-triggering, vinegar smell boiling-up from the chutney, as in the last blog, I am wearing my hair differently and I resemble a curly-whirly. There is a reason and I will tell you, well, you always knew I was going to, didn’t you? Otherwise why would I mention it?
I am going to a wedding. Not my own, because I am too weird for Richard to want to marry me now. He used to want too, and asked me at least three times a week. My answer was always the same…no! I am going to my nephews wedding, in Cornwall. Because I am a troglodyte-type person – happier in compost than Chanel – I spend on average, three minutes a day on my hair. A hand pushed through each side in turn and an applied bobble, pony-tailing it, is as good as it gets. However…
I decided that it was time I tried something a bit different and make a bit of an effort. Why? Lord knows. It seemed like a good idea when the thought leapt into my brain, and so I made an appointment with my lovely hairstylist, Emma.
Emma has known me for some time now and is well aware of my little idiosyncrasies. My fringe must never fall out with my eyebrows. My ears must not be lower than my hair, and one or two other little quirky things that I’d really rather not mention. It was a practice run. We were going to curl my locks and try a few styles. As Emma neatly and professionally curled each segment of hair I sat watching. When every hair was corkscrewed she asked, ‘What do you think of it so far?’
What did I think of it so far? I cracked up, snorting and giggling. All I could see before me was one of those Judge-type dudes, sitting behind a mahogany desk, with the curly wig. After thirty seconds I spluttered, ‘I feel like I should be placing a black cap on my head and giving out the death sentence!’ I couldn’t remove the image and was relieved when Emma ran her hand through my hair and I lost my Judge-locks.
Several styles were applied and Emma took pics’ of them, because my dear cousin, Dawn, is going to have to copy the one of choice (she doesn’t know that yet)…and NO I am not putting a pic’ on here. I may be stupid but I’m not mad.
Anyway, when Richard walked in from work I was dishing up the salmon, courgettes (God more courgettes) the new potatoes and runner beans (God even more runner beans) and I remarked, ‘I’ve had my hair curled.’ You might think this strange…that a grown man needs telling that my hair has changed from a pony tail to something out of Dynasty, but without me mentioning it he wouldn’t have noticed. And for two reasons.
One, when food is in the trough, Richard has tunnel vision and I wouldn’t even be in sight, and two – he never notices anything – unless it involves the car, motorbike or Land Rover.
‘I like it,’ he said.
I swear he is trying to kill me with surprise.
‘But the wedding is seven days away, won’t it be straight by Monday?’
As I live and breathe.
So, here I sit, typing away with my curly-whirly locks bouncing away like Medusa’s spitting snakes, and if Richard knows what’s good for him he will curb the comments or he could be turned to stone.
I fear that whilst I’m away my garden will resort back to a wilderness. The runner beans are already attempting to grab onto the lower birch tree branches, and the huge courgettes are lying around like alien space pods.
I did manage to make the jam that I said I wanted to make. All that remains now to make is the tomato chutney. They are starting to turn, so hopefully they will be ready for picking when I get back and then it’ll be back to the wet towel and my Dick Turpin impression….although, to be honest, I can’t keep Adam Ant from my mind’s eye singing, Stand and deliver …your money or your life!