…and top 5 low points

There are no highs without the lows. Here are five of my darkest moments from 2013.

1. Arcade Fire’s new album.

I can’t say that I hate it. I can’t even say that it’s a bad album. But I have never felt such a keen sense of disappointment in a band in my entire life. It genuinely makes me feel a bit teary just thinking about it. Yes, I need to get a life.

2. X Factor – the whole thing

I can’t even defend it any more. It’s been absolutely atrocious from start to finish.

3. My continuing battle with Arriva

They exist solely to irritate me. (And to bus people around the city, obviously. But they even struggle with that sometimes.) It is a mutual hatred. I ring them at least once a week to complain about something. And they still haven’t whacked the heating on on the 61.

4. Glastonbury

Or rather, the fact that I did not attend Glastonbury this year. ‘Twas no-one’s fault but my own and I am still fuming at myself for being so financially woeful that I didn’t get to go. Next year though! Next year, I’ll make up for it, and then some.

5. My hair

It was dyed for the first time in my life in May and I haven’t had it done since and now the highlights are white and mismatched and I haven’t got a clue what to do with it. SEND HELP.

Please note that my list of low points is half the length of my list of highlights. This surely means that, against all odds, and considering that my life is an ongoing farce, 2013 must have been alright.

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My first (and almost definitely last) go at the catwalk

‘Twas with a heavy heart that I headed to the hairdressers this morning, forgoing the glorious sunshine and the prospect of a Sefton Park picnic with la famille in favour of a entire day in a salon. However, there was nothing I could do about it – my hairdresser (the crafty devil) knew there was no backing out, as I’d had my colour done for free as consolation. DAMN.

I arrived late (obviously) and was greeted with a scene of complete and utter chaos. Hair models galore, stylists sweating already and clothes strewn on every available surface. My hairdresser had wanted to do my hair curly so had asked me to not wash it in the morning. I did try to tell him that it would be a holy show if I followed his instruction but he was insistent. However, as anyone who’s had the misfortune to see me first thing in the morning will confirm, my hair when I wake up looks like I’ve stuck my finger in a plug socket. Sure enough, he took one look at me and said “…hmmm, I think we will wash it after all.” I KNEW IT.

After having my hair washed and dried, I spent the next couple of hours people-watching from the salon’s first floor vantage point on Whitechapel. I saw a lot of people in dungarees, and they only suited about 0.7% of these people. I also took a peek at my fellow models. They were all very skinny and very cool, and none of them had arrived with greasy hair and their outfit for later in a sloth bag. Whoops.

Meanwhile, one of the staff had paid a visit to Marks and Spencer and had returned with armfuls of food. Naturally, I was thrilled. Tragically, the rest of the models seemed to be taking things VERY seriously to the point where they were eating like real models too i.e not very much at all. Undeterred, I carried on like the carb-loving trooper I am. One girl tried to dig into the cocktail sausages but I only allowed her to have a couple. Doesn’t she know who I am?!

My hair was eventually styled and we were left to while away the hours until showtime. I spent these hours by eating A LOT, to the point where I’d ingested so many carbs I was in a kind of haze and was looking around eight months pregnant with a cracking food baby. By the time it came to prising myself into my bodycon dress I was looking positively elephantine and was vaguely traumatised when we left the salon to go to the hotel where the show was to take place (I practically had to be rolled out of the place, everyone else lightly skipped.)

What my hair was like.  Note inability to take a serious selfie.

What my hair was like. Note inability to take a serious selfie.

The actual show was complete and utter comedy gold. I genuinely wish someone had videoed it. We had to walk, one by one, down a room full of people and then stop and pose in front of the judges (the salon managers.) EXCRUCIATING, I KNOW. We also had to wear sunglasses in an already dingy bar, so obviously I was terrified that I was going to fall flat on my face. I didn’t, but was so busy concentrating on not walking too fast yet not too slow that I clearly looked like a total fool anyway. I was doing my best ANTM style smizing too but then realised the effect of this was lost somewhat due to the fact that you couldn’t actually see my eyes.

Seven and a half hours (I kid you not) after arriving at the salon I was free to go. I have to say, I do not know how real models do it. It must be the most boring existence of all time. Granted, they get paid handsomely for it, which must soften the blow, but I could not do any job that a.) was this dull and b.) meant I had to go easy on the savoury snacks.

That said, I got my colour done for free, and my next cut will be as well. AND, I am temporarily no longer grey of bonce. RESULT!

So, my virgin hair is no more.

And I’ll be honest, dear blog readers, you can hardly tell the difference.

“AFTER ALL THAT?!” I hear you cry. I can only apologise for building the tension. Must be all that watching X Factor go to deadlock. It looks a lot like my own colour, but with blonde bits through similar to if I’d squirted it with lemon juice and sat in the sun for a while.

Here’s a picture of the fringe; that’s all you’re getting.

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A bit of blonde! WOWSERS.

However, my hair saga does not finish here. I stupidly agreed to be a hair model for my fabulously camp hairdresser, thinking it would be the same as the last time I did it, i.e sit in the salon, mute, after getting my hair done for free, while people talk about it.

NOT SO THIS TIME.

My hairdresser has got slightly carried away and I have to wear a monochrome outfit, and sunglasses indoors, and (urrgh) heels, and WALK TO MUSIC, and it’s in some hotel, and there are free cocktails beforehand. I will almost definitely get drunk before the showcase and fall flat on my face.

I’ve asked this before and I’m asking it again – what is this life?

Tomorrow is an emotional and momentous occasion in my life

I am getting my hair dyed for the very first time.

I wear my virginal hair status as a badge of honour; I know of very few girls who get to the ripe ol’ age of 27 without dying their hair.  Plus, please cut me some slack – the list of things wrong with me (I have appalling skin; I’m a bit deaf; I am still, to this day, adamant that I have one leg longer than the other, and our Helen has recently established that I’m colour blind to top it all off) – is so lengthy that surely I can be forgiven for being quietly proud of my shiny locks?  Admittedly, the haircuts themselves have at times been dodgy, but dodgy WITH SHINE! 

Alas, even my tresses are now conspiring against me, and the stress of being a Crilly has turned me grey – nay, WHITE.  Action is being taken tomorrow.  I am placing my trust entirely in my hairdresser’s hands.  My hopes are not high.

I’ll post a photo when it’s done, even if it’s atrocious.  In fact, I’m more likely to post one if it’s atrocious.

My weekend hasn’t got off to the best start…

Had to pay a visit to the hairdressers ce soir. My nail scissor trims just weren’t up to scratch anymore and I was in danger of having a fringe feature that encircled my entire head. So off I went to have the situation rectified.

It started badly when the girl who was shampooing it failed to ensure that my neck was covered properly, and then proceeded to ignore my attempts to get comfortable and more importantly STAY DRY. Therefore I ended up with a couple of puddles in my ears and a completely saturated top. I had to take said top off and ask the girl to dry it with a hairdryer. Not good.

Things improved with the actual cut. “It’s like Fearne Cotton’s!” squealed my hairdresser. “Oh behave,” preened I, basking in the glory of having a semi-decent haircut.

The bubble burst approximately ten seconds after getting home. “You look like someone….” mused Our Paul. Then – “Oh God. I’ve realised who it is and I’m not telling you. It’s too bad.”

“It’s not Dawn French is it?” I panicked.

No. It was worse. ALICE FROM EASTENDERS. I’d rather look like Dot. I’ve paid £45 for a haircut that makes me look like the worst geek ever and I am RAGING.

I HOPE YOU ALL HAVE BETTER WEEKENDS, WITH INEVITABLY BETTER HAIRCUTS, THAN ME.

Fringe Benefits

Yes, this post is entirely about my fringe.  And?  It’s my blog and I’ll post what I want to!

I’ve recently had my fringe cut back in, which seemed like a good idea at the time. It’s supposed to look like this:

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Tragically, after hacking away at it myself with nail scissors, and being subjected to a trim a couple of days ago by a hairdresser who was, with hindsight, Spencer Matthews in disguise, hell-bent on revenge after reading my Made in Chelsea blog post, it now looks like this:

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WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL.

I have decided to revisit some of my more questionable fringes, in a vain attempt to make myself feel better about the current one.

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The early years. Classic bowlhead. Looking like a bit of a simpleton.

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Around the age of seven. A tad sinister.

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The worst of the lot. Vying for the title of “ugliest twelve-year-old of all time.”  All the photos from when our Paul was born are blighted by my hideous appearance.

So, actually, my current one ain’t so bad.

Just off to hibernate for three months while my fringe grows out.