just doesn't fit anywhere

Why is is that hairdressers suck at blow drying?

Now I love my hairdresser - I really do. She cuts a mean haircut, and it works for me just the way I want it to, but she makes me leave the salon looking like Mary Tyler Moore with short hair. No-one ever wants to look like Mary Tyler Moore. Well, maybe some people do. Mary Tyler Moore probably does. Actually, she probably wishes that she looked like Pink, although that's absurd, since Pink predates MTM - but I bet she wished back then that she looked like the person who Pink would look like. Now. Perhaps.

I've never seen a hairdresser who doesn't want to smooth and bouffant my hair after cutting it. Despite me explaining that I am a rough and ready type of hair do-er. And describing in detail how I hate it coming forward and I always push it back - so why do they insist on brushing and curling it into a smooth forward coming monstrosity that I have to dash home, wet, and restyle? Maybe they think that they can refine me. Although quite why it's necessary to make me look like I just cleaned my own hair with my paw and left it that way is beyond me.

When I first met my current hairdresser, I had long long hair. It had been long for so long, that I'd stopped caring who gave it a trim, and just opted for the nearest junior to snip the dead ends off. But as I'd decided that the time had come to become a short haired beast again, I needed slightly more expertise. I used to have short hair, but it had been years since, so I took a manky photo of me, uploaded it to a "style" website and proceeded to try on a myriad of weird and wonderful "do's". I narrowed down the shortlist and printed out my final desired cut. Then I made an appointment with the most senior cutter that I could, at a new salon (new to me, not new to the neighbourhood).

I turned up with no expectations in particular, and had them shattered quite spectacularly. My new hairdresser - the person who was going to make one of the most drastic cuts this year - was sporting a straggly bleached blonde do which looked like it had been done in the dark. Not in a trendy way either. I was slightly shellshocked. She needed a wide load sign across her rear, and still thought it was a good idea to wear leggings.

I showed her my mug short, gurning back from the printout under the weight of 12 different hairdo's. I explained how I wanted a haircut that would achieve hairdo number 67. AND number 45, and number 49, which I figured should all be theoretically possible from the same base. I was gripping the revolving chair for grim death by the time she started cutting.

And what a triumph. What a fantastic job she did. I have gone from really long to short only 3 times in my life, the first time I left the salon crying my eyes out, and the second time I felt distinctly let down, but was dry eyed. This time I was amazed and delighted. They even switched out the evil downlit mirrors that make me look like the Churchill dog for ones that made me look quite nice!

So I've gone back to her for each subsequent trim. For the first time in about 6 years I have a hairdresser that I want to stick to. Even though from visit number 2 onwards she fell back into the Mary Tyler Moore school of blow drying. It's like a disease with them.

My biggest fear - as she was cutting today - was that she might find a small critter in there. I could just imagine the withering humiliation if she suddenly stepped back holding her hands in front of her staring in horror as if her fingers had just grown hair and uttering the despised word "NITS!" But I'd just been informed that morning that the child my daughter had played with and had tea with the night before might have a guest lodger in her locks. Which means that if one decided to move interstate and took up residence on Miss Comic Relief, she might just have referred them on to me for a short break. Just hearing the news made me scratch like crazy. And now talking about it again has my scalp itching too! But luckily no such fiasco happened whilst in the chair.

We're flying out to Sydney in a few weeks, so I probably won't get back to her within a six week period. So I decided that I should get it cut extra short so as to last the distance. I am pretty sure that what I am sporting right now could loosely be termed "the lesbian cut". It's a style I've had before. The haircut that is, not the lifestyle. Although there was this one time of experimentation that probably existed only in my mind. Probably not suitable for this blog though. Ahem. Just imagine short and boyish and that will do you. Now excuse me while I go scratch!

In the fledgling moments of birth, this blog has rapidly gone through several iterations of title. I started it on a subdomain of mine that read my.spayce.com - which I've had set up on my domain since I registered the domain. But no sooner than I'd published the first entry I realised that I didn't want my own blog to have any vestiges of similarity to "myspace", so I moved it to this subdomain - creative.spayce.com.

I've come to the conclusion that my body just doesn't like to be messed about with.

A few months ago I had an operation on my sinuses. It was a comparitively non invasive procedure to open up and drain my maxillary sinus. Apart from a momentary attack of anaesthetic terror (I was afraid I'd never wake up) the operation went just fine. I woke up mere seconds after I went under, but someone had moved the clock hands around 3 hours. It was oddly familiar coming down - I was talkative, agitated and very dry mouthed. They'd used cocaine up my nose as a local anaesthetic.

But the most unfun part of it was the gauze taped under my nose. Despite the entire inappropriateness of it, I kept thinking of it as a banana hammock. And up my nostrils were two long tampons (I am sure they didn't refer to them as that - not in my hearing anyway). After a few hours they came to take the padding out. This is where it went pear shaped.

The gauze was pulled carefully out. Half of the tampon was in my nostril, the other half in the back cavity. It was the pulling out of that back part that was excruiating. Once they were out it was a blessed relief. But seconds later my body went into shock. Waves of dark and light washed over me. I was hot and cold and felt so wrong I couldn't describe it. The nurses threw the oxygen on and kept telling me I was fine. I didn't agree with that so much!

This went on for hours. Well about half an hour. I have no real idea of time. Hubby came in while I was still in shock. I couldn't even talk to him. Gradually it subsided and I felt normal again.

So yesterday I had another bout of fun. Boys can look away now. I went to the doctor to discuss having a coil fitted. I told you boys to look away. The doctor ended up suggesting that she fit it then, and foolishly I agreed. It's not the most pleasant of experiences, but I won't elaborate.

After a moment of recovery, I went out to make a follow up appointment. That's the point at which the black cloud desended over me. I almost turned and walked out of the surgery to get some air, but luckily I chose to tell the receptionist (who was still on the phone) that I was about to faint.

Next moment I was ushered into an empty room, and spent the next hour lying down having my blood pressure (which had plummeted) monitored, and feeling like I had fat pins and needles in my hands and fingers. When I felt better, I sat up. My blood pressure dropped again. I thought I'd never feel normal again. Of course I did eventually. And the pain went away too. I left the surgery 2 hours after I got there for my 20 minute appointment.

This was nowhere near as extreme as in the hospital, but it tells me that my body is no good at handling stressors. I never thought of myself as a delicate flower!

I've struggled with addition for a long time. Well not to much struggled. I've embraced it pretty well for years. I accept that I live in a state of acceptance, and I manage the addiction quite strictly. But sometimes you get a reminder about the intensity of things in a rather sureal way, like a cosmic hand reaching down and slapping you silly. That's what I got when I found myself kissing the envelope in which the replacement valve for my cappucino machine arrived in.

Without my mukka, I had to survive on coca cola. Instant coffee is totally unacceptable, and even plunger turned out to fail to satisfy in a monumental way. It failed while we were on holiday. I take the mukka everywhere - even in the van for afternoon jaunts. Fortunately CenterParcs had a coffee shop, although unfortunately it was Starbucks. The queues were mathematically formulated - the number of people serving to the power of 4. And they have the audacity to call their smallest cup measurement "tall" and give you a cup about three times the size of your average stomach which forces you to deposit the last half in the nearest rubbish bin.

The actual failure was fairly monumental and gave me a line of coffee splatter across the middle of my t-shirt. Plus the wall beside the hob, and a bit of the floor. And the sink. And the cereal boxes on the other side of the sink. It reminded me of the time I discovered what actually happens when you lift the egg beaters out of the pancake mix while still turning the handle. But that's a story for another time.

I managed to get my fix from different places until the end of the week. Mostly going back to an old friend - the coca cola can (never ever pepsi!). Just 2 cans would do the trick.

I think age has mellowed me somewhat. There was a time while I was at university when I lived on about 8 cans of coke a day. One night while mounting my photography for marking and display i drank a 2 litre bottle of coke and then had to take no-doze tablets to keep myself awake, since my body was too used to caffeine. I decided that this was an unacceptable addiction - so I gave up cold turkey. Wow. I ended up driving my car one and a half streets to the corner shop, buying a can of coke and then sitting in the gutter slamming it immediately. That was fun. I didn't do that this time!

Arriving home I immediately found someone who sold replacement valves and ordered it. Monday came the confirmation email, and Tuesday saw the arrival of the package. Oh happy day. It's not really dignified to watch a grown woman skip about cackling with glee, but that's what happened. And it's a lovely cappucino.

Ahhhh. Caffeine. It runs through my veins.

Hearing the doorbell ring at 4.30 in the morning is a disconcerting thing. To start with, your subconscious has to wake up your conscious brain and get you moving. Then you spend a few seconds wondering what woke you, and then you barrel on down the stairs wondering how long it actually was since the button was pushed.

And then of course - it's a policeman standing at the door. It's quite unreal. He's in his shirtsleeves, and must be freezing. My first thoughts are not even coherant. It's all we can manage to do to say "yes?". When he asked if we (at least one of us!) is Paul H, and we affirm it, this is when my brain clicks into on gear, and formulates the worst possible question - and perhaps the only reason he's standing there.

But it doesn't come. There isn't a hushed voice and urgent news of a car accident. Instead it's another question. "Do you own a cream scooter?". The answer to that is a quick look round him and into the front garden. Where the scooter stands no longer.

It's now up the end of the street, lights on, front ripped off, and lock barrel smashed in. A group of 5 lads has carried it out of our front garden and into the car parking area behind the last house. They were obviously trying to get it running, and were disturbed. The neighbours looking over the carpark have seen them and called the police, so there we all stand at 4.30am, shivering and chatting about it.

Paul pushes it back to our front yard and removes the batteries. The lights go off, and it's probably the last time, since he's feeling so violated by that, that he'll probably just replace it rather than having it fixed. He won't have much choice about that though, since it's insured in my name, and I'll be the one sorting out which is the best option.

This is the 3rd incident we've had with a scooter. The first being my old scooter - a yellow ninger (NRG, but named the ninger since that's how it sounded!). It was found several streets away with the lock barrel ruined, but sitting on its stand, no other damage. Several months later after getting it fixed, it was stolen again and not recovered.

My ducati was never stolen, but it was knocked over twice and damaged by our neigbhours yardie boyfriends and their revved up cars. I always wondered if that was deliberate.

Replacing the NRG, Paul bought a Tornado. The big brother to the NRG. It was now he who rode the scooter far more than I, since we had the girls now, and I worked from home. And too late he discovered that it as apparently the scooter of choice for the young gangs. It went, never to be seen again with its outer bits on. It was found burnt out, but a prosecution was made. Which made us feel better about it.

The next scooter he bought was a really old man style scooter. Deliberately getting something that had no joy-ride potential. He bought it broken and had it fixed easily, but it was huge, and horrible. Eventually he sold it. But it sold for £300 more than he bought it for, so that wasn't a bad thing! He replaced it with a good scooter, but one that was old and rusty. This became a trusty steed for quite a while. It had a great engine, it just looked shoddy. And then stupid driver who didn't think about looking in the rearvision mirrors wiped him out by changing lanes at the last minute, and the insurance company wrote it off.

The replacement for that - and the one that was stolen last night - was the same kind. A good sturdy scooter, but one that looks shoddy. On our street there are 2 scooters and 2 motorbikes that all park together on the street. And then there is ours, which is in the front yard. But that was a thinly veiled illusion of safety, as they managed to carry it out of the yard without anyone hearing. We have the back bedroom, so we'd never have heard much anyway. If only they'd done it while we were sleeping in the loft bed while my inlaws were over. With the window next to our heads, we'd have woken immediately.

Anyway, later today the forensics are coming over to get fingerprints. But it's raining. They need it to dry before they can do that, and we have no way of covering it without touching it with the plastic cover. But we'll see what happens.

I just hope that they catch these lads.

I know we've been quiet for a while - there hasn't been an official push since 6th November. But doesn't mean that behind the scenes is in any way quiet!

I've just found out that an online friend of mine died a few months ago. I am totally shocked that someone so vibrant and brash as Dori could be gone, even though I knew how long she'd battled breast cancer. Dori was an ezmod when I was an ezmod. We never met in person, but we talked a lot when she was still working for ezboard. She left ez because of the cancer.

I am feeling horribly guilty too, since the last time I spoke to her in person was the beginning of this year, and then emails quite a few months ago. The last few emails I sent were unanswered, and she was no longer on IM. In retrospect, I know now that these months were her last, and that she was fighting a losing battle for her life. To have not said goodbye, or even told her more often that I was thinking about her is an awful mistake. My life goes by so quickly, and I didn't give her many extra thoughts in the last few months. Life is too short to let things slide, and now it's too late.

Breast cancer has now taken two good friends of mine. The first person that it took was my science teacher, Dr Denise Cole. She went down fighting, and lived a lot longer than the time they gave her. She became a very vocal spokesperson, and raised awareness all around her. She was an inspiration to everyone, not just me. She was the best teacher I ever had. She cared the most, and she made the most difference to my life. She came to my wedding in the last months of her life, with barely any hair, no eyelashes, and very little energy. She still made the effort to come and see me.

And I didn't get much of a chance to talk with her on the day. She had to leave early as she was too ill to stay. And I regret that too, because I wanted to tell her how much I cared, and how much she meant to me.

Cancer takes people we love away. Don't waste time, and don't let time slip through your fingers. If you want to tell someone how much you care, do it now.

...Or so the witty saying goes.

Two weeks until I fly to Sydney, with 2 small girls in my hand luggage. I've spent the last few days trying to sort out the e-tickets. Everything would have gone smoothly if I hadn't named dd2 with a boy's name. Some helpful soul in the ticketing department corrected what they thought was a mistake, and changed her to a master. Then they issued the tickets.

I am sure that switching genders for the flight would not be successful, especially since the passport is quite specific about the nature of the gender. So I had to get that fixed.

e-ticket number 2 is mailed out to me - they've fixed her gender, by leaving her off the ticket altogether. Like a rat to left over toffee popcorn in the gutter outside odeon... I am back on the phone.

"It's on a separate e-ticket, ma'am".
"yes, well where might that e-ticket be?"
"Is it not in your pack?"
"If it was, why do you think I decided to call you"

So they email me the missing e-ticket. Hooray. But ever suspicious, I go over the fine print comparing the two. There are several changes.

1. We no longer have our seats listed
2. I no longer have child meals booked for the girls
3. We are now flying on a different flight on the way home
4. dd1 and my ticket are on a different booking level to dd2's ticket.

So... "ring ring" back on the phone go I.

"So why has our flight been changed?"
"It would be availability ma'am"
"Well since we were booked on the first plane, I would assume that those seats were available"
"I wouldn't know about that"
"Ok, what about the child meals - can you confirm that they are booked?"
"That is automatically done when you book a child's seat"
"Oh no it's not! That's what I assumed LAST time!"
"I am sure it is... oh. (pause) Do you have any other special dietary requirements?"
"No, just children's meals please"
"That is confirmed for you"

So, it's all sorted out. Well at least I hope it is. She confirmed also that dd2's ticket does indicate that she is travelling with dd1 and me.

Although come to think of it... it would be nice and quiet if she was somewhere else... like in the hold?