I reached the point of no return and had to give in and book a haircut.
This is a rare occurrence for me - almost at the once-in-a-blue-moon point (ok, I lie, I'm not that bad) - because there is always something else that I could spend the money on (horses' shoes, bills from the vet, books...) and also because I don't like getting my hair cut.
|My kind of thinking|
|Strictly speaking, I think this is not really a ballerina bun.|
However, I think it is lovely.
You can find it here.
Need to bend down to poultice a hoof/ muck out a stable/ persuade a kitten to get out from under the bed? The ballerina bun is your friend.
Want to instil a deep-rooted sense of fear/awe into your students? Accessorise the bun with a pair of glasses and remember not to smile.
Also, it takes the hairdressing skills of a twig to be able to pull it off. Therefore, I am a natural.
Actually, years and years of ballet classes and performances have meant that I can secure my hair in a bun faster than you can make me a G&T (if you already have the ingredients assembled and don't have to hunt for ice. Or lime. Or gin, for that matter).
|Cameron rocking the ballerina bun.|
Sadly I don't look much like this.
Oh yes, the bun. And getting my hair cut.
As well as coveting shiny, flicky hair, I've also always wanted to be the sort of person who has their 'do trimmed every 6-8 weeks and who would NEVER contemplate leaving the house with a hair out of place. In this fantasy world, I would also have regular manicures, drawers full of frothy, lacy, super-expensive underwear, shelves of the finest cashmere and a stable full of beautiful, understated, yet seriously chic handbags (instead of two horses, which, in all honesty, probably prevent me from having all of the above). Also, I would be on first name terms with my hairdresser (as in, s/he would remember my name).
Hmm. I didn't realise until just this moment how strange it was to have a fantasy of being on first name terms with a hairdresser.
Instead, once every six to eight months I slope into whichever hairdresser has an appointment that day and I leave full of joy at my new-found shiny hair that - miracle of miracles - is still blonde without having to resort to dye and, on a really good day, flicks like its the star of a Pantene commercial.
I also vow to my new-best-friend-hairdresser that I won't be such a naughty girl in future and that I will come back regularly to see her and promise to do all the complicated at-home moisturising treatments, only use salon-approved products (Superdrug? eurgh!), and that I will learn how to blow-dry my hair properly instead of tipping my head upside down and blasting it on full power for 10 minutes (which works pretty well, actually).
Eight months down the line I survey the regimented rows of barely-used hair products - why is it that in the salon they work brilliantly, but when you get home they turn hair into clumpy, gloopy, rats' tails? - and phone all of the local hair salons, bagging a spot with whoever has an appointment free the soonest.
What was the occasion that prompted this latest stab at being more presentable?
I'm going HOME tomorrow! As in, my English home, where I grew up.
Too many exclamation marks. Sorry.