The kitchen timer shows 14 minutes to go …
Actually 13 now because I’ve been pondering about a title, but hopefully that will come …
I am dyeing my hair. I’m what a nice, kind person would call a strawberry blonde and my husband calls ginger.
In fact he calls me an Orangutan because I apparently have hairy arms and sleep with them behind my head with my knees up. Marvellous. Some things one can do nothing about, some however, you can.
We were on the tube the other day and I pointed out a rather beautiful girl with the most heavenly deep red hair. My sister’s was like that as a child and I’ve always thought it was gorgeous.
“Isn’t she stunning!” I whispered to him nodding in her direction. He glanced briefly up from his paper, looking over his glasses.
“Nobody can say that a ginga is stunning.” He replied bluntly and carried on with his reading. He does tend to call a spade a spade.
At this point I walloped him with my copy of The Evening Standard. His eyes widened and he looked baffled.
“What?” He yelped. I’m only saying the truth.”
“Pah!” I snort as frankly I could think of absolutely nothing to retort back to my gingerist husband. But it made me think … if he thinks I’m an orangutan and therefore a bit of a ginga, maybe it’s time for a wee change.
The smell of what I imagine is ammonia is hideous … every now and then wafts of it dart up my nostrils making my eyes water and my head jerk back. So now I not only smell pretty grim, but also have tears down my cheeks and am twitching. Rabid dog springs to mind. I’ll let you know if I start foaming at the mouth.
Thin plastic gloves falling off, leaning over the bath, water everywhere, ammonia making my eyes now stream, … I wonder if this gets into my eyebrows then I’ll match …
20 Minutes Later …
I walk into the kitchen where the Colonel is sitting. I think he can smell me before he sees me. Clearly ammonia lingers.
He sees me, sits up rather straight and slowly a long smile fills his face. Oh yes! Result!
It’s now a lopsided grin … Game, set and match to me! I feel fabulous! Claudia Schiffer eat your heart out!
He now looks slightly demented and is getting a tad overexcited. Calm yourself sir! Where’s the damn Evening Standard when you need one? I think he needs a good wallop or … something like that … But golly, there are children in the house and anyway that darn ammonia has given me a headache! It’s not often I hear him say, “Pah!” He scoops me up, ice blonde hair and all, and giggling we fall up the stairs …
Have you ever changed your appearance radically?? How did it make you feel?