On hairdresser therapy

I went to the hairdresser's today, a treat after a long half-term and other turmoils, and I felt that some hair needed to come off.
My hairdresser, Sarah, is this nice lady from South Africa, who seems to remember all I tell her about me through the months in between my visits, which is a quality every good hairdresser should have as frankly, getting a new haircut is only one of the reasons we go there.
She washed my hair, which is one of the reasons I go to the hairdressers - I love having my hair washed by someone else, it's like the best massage ever, soothing and relaxing, and then my hair started to come off and we started to talk. First some small talk about work, fatigue, planned holidays, her son's schooling etc. Then we got interrupted by some idiot from my bank who had to speak to me urgently - no doubt wanting me to upgrade my account, which I have no desire of doing. Once I got rid of that woman, Sarah and I decided that commercial calls were annoying and pointless, because we know very well that there are other options out there and if we are unhappy with our current provider of whatever service, we will look into alternatives, we are not retarded.
As Sarah was putting the finishing touches into my now short hair, she said her husband (who is the one handling service providers in her household) gets seriously with such phone calls but always forgets about it immediately. 'I would be grumpy for a while' she added philosophically 'but he isn’t. I guess it's just that men are better at getting over things quickly, while we will go on turning them over and over in hour heads. They're better at compartmentalising stuff and moving on.'
And she quite possibly saved my relationship there and then.

English weather in the South of France

I’m back to Brum after a week of what was supposed to be sunshine, wine and cheese, and well, sunshine didn’t happen. Apparently the first weekend was glorious, but I missed it completely as I spent it dying in bed, cause as usual in the beginning of a holiday my body said ‘No more work? Letting go!’ and put me through all colds, migraines and stomach troubles it had bravely resisted through school time. Uh, oh.
I was going to put updates up regularly, but I found myself cut from the internet as my adoptive grandma’s computer died on her the day before our arrival. And now I’m at a loss, cause recounting everything would take pages and pages and so I should probably try to sum it up somehow, which is not easy at all.
It was blissful. In spite of the weather. Just seeing all those faces after having missed them so much!
Two huge emotional moments, first when spotting Sainte Victoire from the plane, then one evening at the dinner table, when I just wanted my life there back, but of course that is not possible and, of course, if I had not moved away, then… etc.
My still growing hair was a big hit, apparently it looks like a lion’s mane and I hide rainbows in it (as one can see on little Guillaume’s portrait of me, which he unfortunately refused to part with, cause wanted to remember me by).
Everyone was excited about meeting Paul, I was excited about everybody meeting Paul, Papi loved Paul absolutely which, if you know Papi, you know is not to be taken for granted.
And well, it was all smiling, hugging, making merry, talking, eating and drinking (uh, oh, body needs tea-totalling for a while now!).
All to be done all over again at Easter (cause it got somehow decided that we would be back at Easter and well, we did not protest too much) but hopefully in a better weather and in less of a hurry!

Some more on hair and minor panic crisis

“Gah!” I gasped, standing in Craig and Ann’s bathroom yesterday morning (well, afternoon), washing my hands. I gasped, because I had just glanced at myself in the mirror and spotted a streak of grey hair on the very top of my head. I gasped, and then I examined my head with great care, in case I was wrong, but I wasn’t, it was definitely there.
Oh God.
I composed myself as best I could, but then as soon as the boys were out of the room, I pointed to my head: “Look Ann, grey hair, right here!” Ann examined my head with great care and confirmed the presence of the horror. “All Paul’s fault” she ruled and we both giggled, but quite seriously, if I get a streak of grey hair just because my boyfriend omits to include me in a rice and naan order, then I’m in trouble. Cause then imagine when something actually wrong happens! I mean, soon I’m going to be back at school! I’m going to turn completely grey in no time! And I have nothing against grey hair as such, I actually think it looks dignified and am not planning on dying mine, but it’s way too early, I’m not even 31! (at least not for one more day, but that’s beside the point.)

Later on, back home, when Paul was in the shower, I made Carina pull the horror out of my head. There were all two of them.
But somehow they had managed to look like a whole streak.
I think I’m having a mild case of birthday panic…

(Explanatory note: Craig and Ann are friends of Paul’s, with whom we went to the Lake District and to Alton Towers and several other places.)

Haircut

After a few minutes of a discussion concerned with pros and cons of laminating different stuff, I said I needed a haircut.
‘You should laminate you hair’ said Paul, being silly. ‘I’ll put it up in my classroom with a tag saying ‘les cheveux blonds’'.
I chuckled and we changed subjects, but then I actually did go to get a haircut. And I will never forget the hairdresser’s face when I protested as she wanted to sweep the floor and proceeded to collecting what she’d cut off my head.
‘It’s a private joke’ I said, as if it explained anything ‘I need to laminate that’.
‘You’re weird people’ was her only reply. I suppose there wasn’t much else she could have said.

On hair and feudalism

No one here knows me enough to appreciate the importance of the fact, but hopefully some of you do: my hair has been growing for months now and I have not yet been caught whining about ‘this back bit’ annoying me, read: I have no desire to chop it off.
It is a known fact that cutting hair is a symbolic expression of the desire to liberate oneself from their past. Also, hair is a symbol of femininity, which is why many cultures hide it and see wearing long hair loose as a sign of exuberant sexuality. Finally, think Samson – hair is power. It makes me wonder what should I read into this unusual willingness to let mine grow…
Never mind.
A random fact that caught my attention today: until very recently, there was still a feudal state in Europe! A little island in the south-western English Channel, called Sark, has just abolished fiefdom this month. And all these years I was dealing with feudalism as something belonging to the past, ignoring the fact that there was a genuine feudal Seigneur living right under my nose! He even has a Seneschal! Check it out for yourselves: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sark.
For my part, I want to go there!