bad hair + resolutions

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It's New Years Day. A time of contemplation and reflection.

I could muse on the vicissitudes of 2010, I could reflect on all that I have accomplished last year, I could ponder the future, but no...all I can do, rather narcissistically, is lament my recent hair disaster.

About two weeks ago, I was sitting on a train going to Florence stuck in a compartment with two young women. The train was late again and I was forced to come up close and personal with the fresh face of Italian beauty. I'm already surrounded by a bevy of Sofia Loren types on the school run but being forced to watch these gorgeous nymphs smudge eyeliner and re-apply mascara to ridiculously long lashes drove me to despair. Ever the trouper, I brushed the rabbit hair and old breakfast cereal off my cardie and rushed to MAC.
“Help me I feel really old. Can you recommend a red lipstick?”
“Oh Signora, you are so pale, red could drain you even more”
I should have listened.

My ridiculously red lips and I decided it was my hair that was pushing me over the slippery slope towards middle age, so I booked an appointment at the local hairdressers. To be fair, the colorist and I were a little Lost in Translation;
“I want to look as though I've spent the week at the beach”.
“But you'll look grey and older. We have a wonderful new product that will give you the same effect but with a honey glow”.
“Honey as in 'miele'?” I asked, trying to be specific.
“Yes, kind of beachy honey”
Beachy honey, maybe it's an Italian term for blonde, I thought. So I agreed and the nightmare began. I should have realized there was something wrong when she rinsed my hair and ran to Franco, the boss.
“Bellissimo, bellissimo” she kept exclaiming
Bellissimo it was not, it was ginger with a green hue.
Panic ensued, it was like watching a bad opera. Shouting, arms flailing, semi-obscene gesticulating and lots of crying – the staff not me!
Fabrizio, from Bar Gerasmo, delivered two proseccos and Franco, armed with his aluminium squares, sought to restore my calm. Five hours later at 10pm, I finally left with new highlights.

Having hidden in the house under low lighting with the excuse of stuffing the turkey and decorating the Christmas cake, I tentatively took my first steps outside.
“And?” I asked my family.
“Well a bit lemony and a bit gingery” replied my eight year old.
Right then, that confirms it, I have spent Christmas looking like a gingery, pale lemon with excessively red lips.

And my resolutions for 2011?

Don't walk on the wild side of beauty, be happy with who you are and never get stuck in a train compartment with young Italian women.

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