Cat Stevens, back in the day - before he became Yusuf Islam - sung perhaps one of the more profound songs of the 20th century:
The first cut is the deepest
Baby I know the first cut is the deepest
But when it come to being lucky she's cursed...
And so it goes on. Oh Cat - your understanding of emotional complexities is peerless.
You see, if I can apply his DAM (deep and meaningfuls) to my own life, they take on a whole new level of meaning. Gentle reader, it is now over 3 months since I left the UK. That means many things: 3 months since I have tasted real chocolate (most of what we get over here is made with chemically altered dairy products, modified so as to be able to withstand the Australian heat and long journey to get here). 3 months since I have seen my friends, family and "London Massive". 3 months since I was in the same timezone - let alone the same room - as some of the people who mean the most to me. But this is nothing, nothing in comparison to the final insult of the last 3 months: that my hair has not been trimmed, cut, masqued, or otherwise maintained. No - I have not had my hair properly cared for since leaving the UK. And that was in August. Yes, August.
Reader, I have had my trust in people thrown back in my face in a variety of ways over the course of my 24 years on this planet. But never, never has this been done more viciously and with more traumatic results, than by a hairdresser. So you can see why I would hesitate before I would ring a salon, and make that appointment. The comeback could be (literally) hideous.
I mean, I'm all for booking a oneway ticket halfway around the earth, to an unknown city, to begin a new life, with no plan more specific than "that could be fun, let's see how it goes" - but having a hair cut without doing the appropriate research? What do you think I am - crazy?! So you will understand, bearing that in mind, that it was with a sense of great trepidation that I recently picked up the phone and dialled Hair Rescue (a number disconcertingly found under "Got Possums?" in the White-Book Phone Directory).
Now, before you write in to express your shock (I am, after all, not the kind of girl who has ever been associated - even by phone directory proximity, with anything related to possums, let alone personally having them) - Hair Rescue has a stirling recommendation. A recommendation from none other than a JSAP. (To those not in the know, that's a Jewish South African Princess). And my oh my - if you've not encountered a JSAP, they really know their stuff. Do not mess. Any recommendation from them I would value more highly than a good bar of Dairy Milk right now (and that's saying something).
As of today we are on a countdown of T-4 days (that is Time to haircut: 4 days), and as the big moment approaches I feel sweaty-palmed with anticipation. Will I end up less Belle de Sydney, more Tacky of Target (Target being a low budget store, of the Primark "reputation")?
Only time can tell. But with a JSAP on my side, let's hope that I can't go wrong. And if the worst happens, and I emerge with a mullet of the calibre that would make the 80s cringe - I will take a deep breathe, count slowly to 10, and remember Cat Stevens...
With love,
Belle x (who may not be a JSAP, but is nonetheless a Princess, and proud.)
The first cut is the deepest
Baby I know the first cut is the deepest
But when it come to being lucky she's cursed...
And so it goes on. Oh Cat - your understanding of emotional complexities is peerless.
You see, if I can apply his DAM (deep and meaningfuls) to my own life, they take on a whole new level of meaning. Gentle reader, it is now over 3 months since I left the UK. That means many things: 3 months since I have tasted real chocolate (most of what we get over here is made with chemically altered dairy products, modified so as to be able to withstand the Australian heat and long journey to get here). 3 months since I have seen my friends, family and "London Massive". 3 months since I was in the same timezone - let alone the same room - as some of the people who mean the most to me. But this is nothing, nothing in comparison to the final insult of the last 3 months: that my hair has not been trimmed, cut, masqued, or otherwise maintained. No - I have not had my hair properly cared for since leaving the UK. And that was in August. Yes, August.
Reader, I have had my trust in people thrown back in my face in a variety of ways over the course of my 24 years on this planet. But never, never has this been done more viciously and with more traumatic results, than by a hairdresser. So you can see why I would hesitate before I would ring a salon, and make that appointment. The comeback could be (literally) hideous.
I mean, I'm all for booking a oneway ticket halfway around the earth, to an unknown city, to begin a new life, with no plan more specific than "that could be fun, let's see how it goes" - but having a hair cut without doing the appropriate research? What do you think I am - crazy?! So you will understand, bearing that in mind, that it was with a sense of great trepidation that I recently picked up the phone and dialled Hair Rescue (a number disconcertingly found under "Got Possums?" in the White-Book Phone Directory).
Now, before you write in to express your shock (I am, after all, not the kind of girl who has ever been associated - even by phone directory proximity, with anything related to possums, let alone personally having them) - Hair Rescue has a stirling recommendation. A recommendation from none other than a JSAP. (To those not in the know, that's a Jewish South African Princess). And my oh my - if you've not encountered a JSAP, they really know their stuff. Do not mess. Any recommendation from them I would value more highly than a good bar of Dairy Milk right now (and that's saying something).
As of today we are on a countdown of T-4 days (that is Time to haircut: 4 days), and as the big moment approaches I feel sweaty-palmed with anticipation. Will I end up less Belle de Sydney, more Tacky of Target (Target being a low budget store, of the Primark "reputation")?
Only time can tell. But with a JSAP on my side, let's hope that I can't go wrong. And if the worst happens, and I emerge with a mullet of the calibre that would make the 80s cringe - I will take a deep breathe, count slowly to 10, and remember Cat Stevens...
With love,
Belle x (who may not be a JSAP, but is nonetheless a Princess, and proud.)
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