Bad Hair Day

                              




Every move sooner or later reaches the stage of me pulling my hair out. Not because I am that desperate but because I have to find a new hairdressers.

Let me start by saying that there are few things that I dislike more -  on my list a visit to the hairdresser would only be topped by going in for a cervix smear, or a root canal treatment - than having my hair cut. Just the whole back breaking exercise of having it washed is enough to put me in a bad mood. I never am comfortable, despite my politely uttered reassurance, with my neck resting on a rock solid plastic rim and water dripping in my ears. And why on earth you should shampoo and then condition your hair twice in a row is beyond me.
There was one blissful periode in England. After several visits to different hairdressers who invariably spend fifteen minutes cutting and a good hour blowdrying (styling!) your hair, we came accross a lovely lady who made house calls. She could cut, dry and style all four of us in an hour. And the best part: you could wash your own hair in your own shower. Cleaning the kitchen smothered in human hair seemed a small price to pay.
After our move to Italy it seemed neigh on impossibe to find a replacement. Luckily we found an old fashioned salon at the bottom of our street. The team of stylists consisted of mum, well into her sixties with a purple helmet of hair, her daughter, son in law and a ferocious, but impeccably groomed, orange poodle. The elderly head of the family made a mean espresso, so in Italy was deemed a valuable asset to the business. And so he was.
No premium espresso's were being served in Switzerland, where I decided to grow out my hair. Not so much as a fashion statement, but more so because for a long time I couldn't face the discussion about layers, fringes and blow drying techniques in yet another language. In the end I found the one place in Switzerland where you didn't need to book an appointment, so I could just walk in on days when I felt particularly courageous.
With hair almost as long as my 10yo daughter's, I felt that I couldn't postpone a trip to the hairdressers any longer. Since a friend (with lucious chestnut coloured wavy locks completely unlike my own limp blond excuse of a hairdo) recommended her hairdresser, I decided yesterday to take the plunge.
I really tried to ignore the water dripping in my ears and although I vowed that looking at my not so young face upclose in a mirror with my hair piled up high in unfashionable pink hair pins for a least an hour wasn't going to get me down, it did in the end.
I also discovered that language, contrary to my beliefs, doesn't play a part in my disliking of going to the hairdresser. Yesterday, I found that whilst being able to discuss my hair in my mothertongue I still didn't have anything to say about it.
To cowardly to admit that I more often than not leave the house in the morning with wet hair and that styling it is something that I have carefully avoided for years, I tell lies. Something that I manage to do so convincingly that I invariably come home with some useless and very expensive styling mousse or hair serum that I feigned to be interested in.
On the upside though I had enough of my wits about me yesterday to make the girl seriously trim my hair. It's much shorter than I have had it in years. So short in fact that I don't need another haircut for at least a year. Or two. In this timespan I might even manage to use the volume enhancing product that I bought. Or else it might look lovely next to the unused jar of boob dust in it's secret hiding place.

Defrosting

                       

Pippi Longstocking would absolutely adore my kitchen at the moment. With the help of two brushes tied to her size 10 feet and a little detergent she could skate to her heart's content. All because as a spur-of-the-moment thing I decided to defrost my fridge/freezer.

It seemed like such a good idea this morning.  The fridge could defrost while I was doing the weekly shop. Upon coming home I was going to deep clean the beast, before packing it to the brim again. All would have been fine, if only I had turned the heating off, before I left the house. Remembering to take the drawers out of the freezer, would also have made a difference.
On a(nother) whim I decide to check out a different supermarket as it seems such a waste to drive to the nearest supermarket as it is only 300 yards from my house. I justify taking the car by driving fifteen minutes to another supermarket where I am going to do a really big shop. A hundredandsixty euro's and three bags filled to the brim later, I feel like I have really accomplished something. It is not until I arrive back home that I realise there is absolutely nowhere to unpack the mountain of perishable goods.  Allthough it is strangely balmy outside, considering we are nearing the end of october, I decide to leave everything in the boot of the car.
I let myself in, carefully avoiding the kitchen, because first I need to go and see my physiotherapist. It takes him a bit longer than anticipated to abuse my lower back, so instead of going home, I need to rush over to my daughter's school to pick her up. Thank God she decides to go over to a friend's house for a play date, because when I finally make it back into my kitchen disaster has struck.
Not only have the overflowing freezer drawers flooded my kitchen; the milk, butter and cheese left outside the fridge has completely melted and is leaving gooey blobs all over the units. Packets of ham have turned greyish and defrosted pakets of peas and puff pastry have mingled into a sorry mess.
Luckily I discover real mushrooms in the fridge as well as white mouldy bits and non identifiable black, crumbly smears, completely justifying the chaotic defrosting operation.
My 12yo and his classmate look at me curiously when they find me smothered in food scraps and kneeling in a large puddle trying to clean the fridge. The last time I did this - in a different house in a different country - I could easily lift the shelves out, but never managed to make them slide back in again, so this time I am desperately trying to clean the shelves while leaving them in the fridge.
You have to be quite flexible to get rid of all the new growth, let me tell you that.
While I scrub, mob and wipe I have loads of time to ponder our recent new beginnings in the Netherlands. something that I have carefully avoided for the past two months. It is not all bad, I decide. Wanting to clean the fridge in my new home, surely is a sign of nesting, is it not? and mY heart is definitely defrosting, albeit slowly, as I am trying to fall in love all over again with my motherland.
Hours later, I contently look at my new sparkly clean and well stocked fridge. I have send Mr. S. to the nearest chippy for a couple of beers and some well deserved greasy treats. No one is allowed to touch the sanitized appliance again. Or at least not today. The cleanliness of the fridge is as fragile and easily disrupted, I fear, as are my baby steps on the road to accepting that life has changed once again.

Glamming up

                                       

Fast approaching her eleventh birthday my daughter has suddenly developped an interest in shopping. Whereas before she would only reluctantly agree to come with me to get her some new shoes/trousers/tops, nowadays I am the one who hesitates when she asks to be accompanied into town.

The fact is that she would rather go by herself - it has allready been two, or even three years since my daughter decided she was old enough to do most things on her own - and thus every shopping expedition starts with an argument. She demands an exact date, albeit months (years?) from now, on which she can set out on her own. I know if I let myself being tempted into picking a date it will be set in stone.
The minute I promiss to take her to a cafe and treat her to a hot chocolate however, she will grudgingly put up with me tagging along. As long as she is allowed to turn left on entering a shop while I take a right, that is. Which is easier said than done, because I have to make myself scarce without loosing sight of her. If she doesn't spot me the second she decides she has had enough solitude, she panicks. Big time.
Nevertheless I adore our girly outings together. It is lovely to see how she is changing from a little girl into a teenager. That she doesn't like a single piece of clothing that I like is only natural and to see her emerging from a changing room in leather trousers and a leather jacket (embellished with a chunky gold asymmetrical zip) is priceless.
My daughter is developping a rather unique style as she likes to combine zip off outdoor trousers and hiking boots with very glitzy leave one shoulder bare tops. We don't buy the leather jacket outfit as it is way too expensive, but instead we manage to find her a pair of black leather boots adorned with metal studs and a very garish orange top with loads of sequins and a rather busy print.
Over coffee and chocolate in a lovely little cafe, my olive skinned daughter confides in me, that she
really wants blusher, because she would like to be 'very brown in the winter too'. She is determined to spend her pocket money on it and since she can do whatever she likes with her own pennies, I let her.
Ages we spend surveying the different 'revolutionary' skintone alterating products. Finally my daughter picks a powder blusher that is the shade of an old fashioned clay tennis court. It will defenitely do the trick. She also finds a nice looking bottle of Vampy Kiss, which wouldn't go amiss if someone threw up in the car, but is just a tat overpowering in all other circumstances.
Hours later, glow in the dark orange and smelling divine, I find her on the sofa reading a girl's magazine.  She has a brilliant idea, she tells me. Next time we go shopping together she is going to pick out stuff for me to try on. 'It is going to be great', she says, smiling seductively. 'I will find you a really good pair of leather trousers and a very sparkly top'. Great idea! I am only hoping however that she will have forgotten all about the necessity of blusher by then.

Star

My children have learned how to conjugate verbs in four, or in my sons case, five different languages. But do they use any of that knowledge to communicate with me? Nope. One word suffices to get their message across.

Depending  on intonation, rhythm, volume and breaking up of the word in two, or sometimes even three nonexisting syllables, a single 'mum' cuts straight to the chase. 'Mum' sounding loudly and yet strangely muffled at the same time, means that one of my kids can't find his or her P.E. kit, homework, guitar, or favourite jumper. It might by the way also mean that they can't find the butter, chocolate sprinkles, bread rolls, or - my favourite - have run out of loo paper whilst sitting on the toilet.
With their head stuck in a kitchen cabinet, sock drawer, or laundry basket they expect me to magically pull whatever it is that they want (need!!!) out of a top hat. I can not seem to make them understand that stuff could also be at the bottom of a pile, behind something else on a shelf, or still in one of the zillions of bags shattered around our house.
 'Mum' uttered in a kind of whiney tone of voice however conveys a different set of messages in our family. 'I told you I have a tummy ache and you're not responding to it the way that I want you to', certainly is one of them. As are: 'I left my rain jacket in some changing room somewhere and now I am cold and wet and it is all your fault', 'I failed my geography test and it is so unfair, because I did study for it and by the way, it is all your fault', or 'I left my lunchbox at home and you did not want to bring it and now I am soooo hungry and it is definitely your fault and did you know that you are the worst mum in the world'.
 'Muhum', or 'muhuhum' repeated over and over, combined with a rolling of the eyes is my children's way of telling me that I have never been more wrong in my life than when I suggested they bring waterproof trousers on a day trip to the zoo in November. Or when I tell them I don't want to watch Harry Potter at two in the afternoon on a gloriously sunny day, nor want to teach them how to bake at nine 'o clock at night (but you always say we are going to .., but when I ask you, you never feel like it').
 My children 'mum' from dawn to dusk, preferably simultaneously, never doubting my superwomanpowers to listen to my daughter playing guitar in her bedroom upstairs, while at the same time searching for my son's maths book in the kitchen downstairs. They also seriously expect me to not bat an eyelid when they need me to handwash their team sports socks that they forgot to put in the laundry bin a week ago. And didn't I know they need those socks tonight? And all that while I am busy cooking dinner.
When I finally sit down for a spot of apathetic gazing at the telly, I hear a softly whispered 'mum' coming from upstairs. It is my 10yo daughter who should have been asleep by now. She needs to know whether we have any cardboard. 'It is for a present for you', she hastily adds when she sees my
face. I leave without getting too cross with her, but ten minutes or so later she lures me into her
bedroom again. Covered in glue, paper, ribbon and beaming radiantly she hands me a giant card. 'To mum, you are a' it reads, followed by a massive and very sparkely star. And you know what? I think she has a point.