Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Operation S.B.A.M

It's been over three years, maybe four, since I went to a hairdresser. Every 8 months or so I have been handing Nye scissors and asking him to remove the 'really crap bits'.

I've been wearing the same glasses for that time too. In fact the last time I got a haircut and new glasses were on the same day. I wouldn't have done if I hadn't been staying with my mum and the optician and hairdresser weren't 30 yards away. And she hadn't made the appointments for me.

I've also plaintively whined about needing a haircut and new glasses at least once a month for the last 2 years. I became that abysmal person who complains about something that they never do anything to fix. I hate that person. It's a testiment to Nye's patience that he has been listening to this crap for two years and hasn't slapped me with a wet fish.

It's probably not that much of a coincidence that I stopped making an effort at the same time that my endometriosis got so bad we stopped trying to have a baby. It's not that I didn't care, I cared. I just didn't have the energy to do anything about it.

Also, I hate going to the hairdresser. I have done since I was about 13 and I entered the hairdresser truly believing that I would be transformed into a one of those women from the shampoo ads and left it in tears. Not happy ones. A few more years of dashed hopes were too much for my nerves and I gave up altogether. And the opticians? Well that's just too much looking in the mirror whilst being watched by a bored shop assistant when you don't much like looking in the mirror (because you have crap hair.)

And I'm lazy. Let's not forget that I'm lazy. Choosing a salon, making an appointment, dressing nicely so that the hairdresser thinks you care what you look like and doesn't give you Ann Widdecombe hair, answering inane questions about your holiday plans and whether you came to the appointment by bus or train.... who can be arsed? Really.

But that is over. It's time to make a little effort, if only because if I hear myself moan about how I look, knowing full well I'm not going to do anything about it, one more time I will slap myself with a wet fish.

And so commences Operation Stop Being a Minger.

*Photo of Patti Smith, by Richard Mapplethorpe, via East Side Bride