Living Up To The Hair


In a move calculated to get some of my mojo back, I’ve just returned from the hairdresser as a maximum blonde!  Rumplestilskin would go nuts for this stuff!  Spun gold indeed!  It is shimmering, glistening, dare I say, Dazzling with a capital D – true Hollywood blonde!  I’m not kidding when I say this hair colour has taken 10 years off my face…ok, maybe 5 1/2 but still, when one’s next birthday is the Big 5-0, that’s saying something!


Ain’t there always a “but”?

What about the rest of me?  Oh, sure, it’s fine if one keeps one’s eyes firmly above the shoulders – given the dazzling display of blonde awesomeness going on up there, it’s fairly easy – but  should one’s eyes drift lower, the jig would be up, as they say.

So now, I have to live up to my hair.  I think it’s a good thing.  Having this glowing halo of bedazzlement on my head will force me to give some much needed care and attention to points further south, and let’s be honest, the inside as well.  (STOP:  get glass of water; drink further 7 glasses throughout the rest of the day, sleep close to bathroom…)

Ok, I’m back…

As I was saying, living up to the hair will require taking care of the rest of me and folks, this blonde revolution comes not a moment too soon.  As I lay in bed last night, groaning in pain and feeling more than ten times my age, I thought it’s time:  either die or do something about yourself.  Ok, I know that sounds melodramatic but that’s how banshees are.  Given my age (see above), weird shit is happening to my body; most of it makes me feel bloody awful most of the time.  To a large degree this is because I lie in bed eating Oreos and doing nothing good for myself.

Those days are OVER.  Now that I’ve published this directive, I have to follow through.  Or so the experts tell me.

Step 1:  Eat better.  Just because there are cookies in the house doesn’t mean I have to eat…all of them.  If fats must be ingested, make them good, worthwhile fats as opposed to waste of time, worthless fats.  Avocados instead of Twinkies.  Drink water; ease up on the vodka.  Green tea, good.  Starbucks, bad.

Step 2: Get moving!  My husband, felled by kitty-induced asthma, can still play a squash match (albeit with more heavy breathing than his partners are used to) and live to tell the tale whereas I can barely run a mile.  In fact, I’m quite sure I cannot.  Break up with the couch, banshee.  He’s no good for you.

Step 3: Fake it til you make it.  While my lovely hairdresser Kris can take me from mousy brown to Hollywood bombshell in about an hour and a half, the rest of the renovation will take some time.  If I’m diligent, it probably won’t take as long as I think it will but deceptive measures will still have to be employed.  As in, the use of the lovely tunic length sweaters in gorgeous fall colours that complement my new hair colour and also cover a multitude of sins.  Makeup.  Making an effort can make a difference even if the only creature who lays eyes on me most of the day is a kitten.

Three simple steps to renovating a banshee.  Not too bad.  Now, I will eat a healthy lunch, basking in the glow of my luminous hair…


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