Archive for the ‘Hair’ Category

Maths — not one of my talents

So, how come nobody noticed that I am an entire YEAR wrong in my calculations? If I’m  not going to another hairdresser until 1 March 2011, I am now at

fourteen down, seven hundred and eighteen to go.

(this is what spreadsheets are for)

Have a weekend! You decide what.

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And this is why I love my parents

When I uploaded the pictures on my camera I found this at the end:

My wonderful mother -- my not so wonderful wig.

My wonderful mother -- my not so wonderful wig.

Turns out I had inadvertently left my camera at home, and mum and dad had — well, you can see the result.

Did she really think I would not put it on the blog? Fat chance!

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I realise that my looks are of no importance to you, and I am grateful that you are a less shallow person than myself. Normally I, too, concern myself with more substantial thoughts than that of the state of my hair. Such as this. Or this. And this. And of course there is this. I think about that last one a lot at the moment.

But you see… no one has ever sheared my hair with such savagery before, leaving such a miserable result. And it is a shock when one is used to getting away with cuteness to suddenly discover that “cute” is very far from being the right word. Wrinkled old prune is closer to the mark. With the stress on “wrinkled” and “old”. AND with a bad haircut.

Trust me, if I were able to use Mischa as a toupé, I would. At least he has nice hair. All over.

Eleven days down, one thousand and eighty four to go.

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Mum has said nothing about my hair being ugly. And she likes the flat. And she likes Mischa. We iz keepingz ourz fingerz crozzdz.

Seven days down, one thousand and eighty eight to go.

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Still feeling ugly

Mum and dad are here and I feel like a kid again. I wonder what that is all about. And my mum, the woman with The Finger That Must Be Obeyed brought her lazer measuring tape and will presumably tell me where to put my stuff. The problem is that I have stuff, but little to put that stuff in or on. That shall be mum’s challenge. How to make this place look wonderful with the help of nothing.

Mischa loves them, and they love Mischa. No surprises there.

I still feel hideous and am still wearing my €6 sixpence. It may soon have welded itself to my head with the likely possibility that I will have to call the fire department and have them cut me out of it. I.e, I am trying not to give my mum the pleasure of repeating that my hair is ugly. Tell me something I don’t know.

Five days down, one thousand and ninety to go.

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Four days and counting

I realise that I have been incredibly spoilt over the years. When I was quite young I started going to one particular hairdresser in Oslo. One day they asked me to choreograph a hair show for them, and in return I got free hairdressing for a year. It was always the same girl doing my hair, their Danish stylist who eventually became their manager. Then she returned to Denmark, but before she left she handed the reins over to her assistant, Helene. She made sure Helene was fully versed in my hair, hanging over her like a hawk keeping an eye on every last snip of the scissors, making sure every strand was groomed to perfection.

I had fabulous hair.

When the deal was up I stayed with Helene. I was not their most frequent visitor after my year of free hairdressing and she occasionally had to do a bit of a rescue job, but I always knew I would walk out of the salon looking like a million dollars. Well, my hair did.

Helen is now manager of the salon, and I go there when in Norway — as long as I remember to book her well in advance. She is not just manager, but their top stylist, a talented singer and simply a great person. With enviable hair… she has the thickest naturally wavy hair I have ever seen. Dark. And she always knows if I’m not in the mood to talk. About dogs.

Anyway. Got to go. Have spent the morning waiting for Telekom Austria to turn up to move my internet connection, phone and TV to my new address. Which they did not. My fault… I got the date wrong, it seems. “Third” and “fourth” sound so similar in German…

Four days down, one thousand and ninety one to go.

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Three days and counting

Went back to the hairdresser today. In tears. And the cow (I don’t normally talk about people like this, but this is about my HAIR — my formerly lovely hair…) lamely said; sorry, it was a mistake. And informed me that they have nothing to offer when such “mistakes” are made, and she could not even find the time to at least straighten out the worst of it.

Then she told me I could always go buy a wig, to which I could only ask if she really thought that paying €200 (yes, that is how much a semi-decent wig costs) to hide her mistake for a month represented some sort of compensation? She looked a tinsy bit embarrassed for a nanosecond before she asked me in a mock surprised tone why it was so expensive (I thought hairdressers knew these things — perhaps she is a true blonde after all and the dark roots are part of a new hairdressers’ fashion? or did she expect me to get a pink plastic wig in some fancy dress shop…?). And how did I know that anyway? I stated squarely that I had cancelled all appointments over the weekend to search for wigs.

There was no solution. I still look like a plucked chicken on a bad day, and I’m still €45 out of pocket to boot. So I’m counting the days until 1 March 2011.

Three down, one thousand and ninety two to go.

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