Who’s that girl?

Next week I will turn 40.  I like to think that it won’t bother me; that I am comfortable enough in my own skin to let my thirties go without a period of adjustment or mourning but I fear that this will not be the case.  Ageing is an insidious thing.  It creeps up on you; weaving its dark magic on your body and face without you really noticing until one day, BAM, you are stood in front of a three way mirror in a harshly-lit Next changing room and your world comes crashing down.  I don’t go clothes shopping very often and on an ill-fated shopping trip to Manchester just before Christmas I remembered why. Badly angled mirrors, nasty lighting, the terror of asking beautiful, pert 17 year-old shop assistants for a top in a size 14 – these were the horrors that lurked inside the changing rooms of the Arndale Centre.

My nemesis - "Deidre Barlow" neck

I always used to get round the three-way mirror back-fat trauma with a combination of squinting and denial.  I would do the pout-mouth that all women do when they try on clothes in front of a mirror and console myself with the fact that I had applied my eyeliner quite nicely that morning.  Unfortunately I cannot escape the fact that first thing in the morning I look like my Dad in a wig.  It’s not that my Dad is unattractive; it’s just that I don’t particularly want to share the facial characteristics of a 66 year old man.  If I was a character in a Jane Austen novel I would be described as having “lost her bloom.” The changes are subtle but they are definitely there – this is ageing.

One of the more depressing events of the past twelve months was being ID’d in my local supermarket when buying a bottle of wine.  Why was this depressing I hear you ask?  Well, after a brief moment of joy, that to the outside world I was still a dewy-skinned 18 year-old, my hopes were completely dashed by the young checkout man giving a little guffaw at his audacity of ID-ing someone who was clearly well past it.  He was flirting with me in the way that young men flirt with old ladies.

Earlier this week I watched a Channel 4 programme about women having mid life crises and there was a lady who had gone down the Botox / surgery route to tackle her ageing demons. Although this woman certainly caught the eye, it was for all the wrong reasons (tattooed eyebrows – what’s that all about?) It only reaffirmed my long held belief that Botox does not make you look younger, it just makes you look like you have had “work done”. Attractive, 42-year old presenter Sharon Horgan revealed that she had tried Botox last year around her mouth after catching herself “looking a bit gummy” when she smiled. “My husband went mad with me” she admitted.  I am with the husband on this one.

Aside from vanity, I have another slightly less shallow reason for the feelings of apprehension surrounding my forthcoming birthday.  I remember my Mum’s forties as being the decade where her multiple sclerosis really took hold.  She had relapse after relapse and was hospitalised several times.  By the time she had reached fifty her walking had been severely affected and she used a wheelchair if she had to walk more than a few steps.  I try not compare myself to my Mum as there is no reason why my MS should follow the same path as hers but in my darker moments it is difficult not to worry that a similar fate (or worse) awaits me.  MS is a mercurial disease and although I feel better now than I have done for two years, I have learned the hard way to never take my good health for granted. I may get distracted by the trivialities of saggy boobs and old lady hands but underneath I know maintaining my general good health is paramount.

So my only course of action after a festive period characterised by sneaky breakfast After Eight Mints and midnight cheese and crackers is to try and be a bit healthier again. It’s time to get out on my bike, start chopping vegetables and have a root around in the freezer for that bag of Quorn I bought back in October. The back fat, eye bags and Deidre Barlow neck can all go to hell.  I am determined to embrace middle age and I have a Good Housekeeping Magazine subscription to prove it.  I am going to celebrate the fact that at forty I am happy and healthy and for the time being am winning my own personal war with this shitty disease.

Everyday I'm Shuffling

It’s a sad day when you finally realise at the age of 39 that you have no natural rhythm.  This revelation has been a long time coming.  It started way back in 1984 when my Mum sent me to disco dancing lessons in the school hall.  I was a diligent dance student but there was no denying that although I knew all the moves, I couldn’t quite pull off a convincing performance of Freeze’s A.E.I.O.U.  Similarly my attempt at jungle-themed disco dancing to Tight Fit’s “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” was underwhelming to say the least.  I bought some leg warmers to see if they would help me dance like the kids from FAME - they didn’t.

I tried a bit of shoe-gazing to the Stone Roses and Happy Mondays in the late eighties / early nineties and this, believe it or not, is how I bagged myself my then-boyfriend now-husband.  The alluring combination of a miniskirt, purple tights, “ethnic” top and a half grown-out perm was too powerful for him to resist. Luckily for me, he was too distracted by my unplucked Madonna-esque eyebrows to notice that I couldn’t really dance like Bez.

Fast forward a couple of years to University and the opportunity of regular dance practice in various Newcastle nightclubs.  This was the era of rave, whistles and gurning.  I didn’t pull this off either.  My gurning was too self-conscious (probably due to the absence of any drugs in my system) and I never felt confident enough to have a whistle.  I resorted to the lowest of the low – dancing around my handbag and doing “lesbian style” dancing with my friends to try and hide the pitiful fact that I just could not cut it on the dancefloor.

Luckily I am not alone in this world in not being able to dance.  Most people I know are pretty awful at it.  There are of course a couple of exceptions to this rule.  My brother-in-law can rave beautifully and when I first knew him he could be prevailed on to do some breakdancing if you plied him with enough drinks.  I have also got a couple of friends who can pull of a passable Beyonce routine without looking stupid (or like a fake lesbian).  I don’t think I am being disloyal when I say that most women I know of my age now do the “Mum dance”.  Thankfully our generation of men don’t often venture on to the dancefloor but if they did I am almost positive they would be doing the “Dad dance”.  I don’t need to describe it – we’ve all seen it in action.

So now I have three dance-mad children and all of them, yes ALL OF THEM, can dance.  Even my four year old has better natural rhythm than me and IT IS NOT FAIR.  Their favourite form of entertainment is to put LMFAO on MTV and order me to “shuffle”.  Once again I have had to confront my dancing demons but with age also comes experience, so at least this time round I have worked out the root of my problem… I am suffering from a kind of dancing dysmorphia, whereby what I see and what other people see are two entirely different things.  In my head I am doing a great “running man” with moves that MC Hammer would be proud of.  The reality is somewhat different. When I showed my “shuffle” to my brother-in-law he started humming “Riverdance” because apparently it looks more "Michael Flatley" than LMFAO.  My kids think it is the most hilarious thing they have ever seen.

So I did what any other 39 year-old, mother-of-three would do; I searched YouTube for shuffling instructional videos (yes I am that sad).  I was amazed to discover that LMFAO himself even has one. Problem number 2: I can see that the moves are really simple but I JUST CAN’T DO IT.  I am the dance version of someone who is tone deaf. My dance gene is missing.

The good news is that I am 40 in January and thereafter I can officially embrace middle-age and Mum-dancing with a clear conscience.  My shuffling days are over (in public anyway). Dancing is destined be another one of those things I will never master along with tennis, drawing and being able to do a Cornish accent*.

*Thanks to my husband for pointing this one out.

Happiness

Today I had a revelation.  I was sat in a lovely pub in front of a roaring fire (we were too close and it was a bit hot) but I will always insist on sitting near a fire because it makes me feel happy.  The food (prawn sandwich, chunky chips and cappuccino) made me feel happy. The location (the beautiful Winster valley in the Lake District) made me feel happy.  The fact that my husband was sat opposite me (equally roasted by the fire) in a really bad shirt that he had found in the back of our van made me happy.  My sodden, muddy socks drying by the fire made me happy.  The fact that we had earned the prawn sandwich and chips by virtue of the 16 mile bike ride up some steep hills only added to the feeling of general contentment.

Are you dry-wretching at the smugness of this blog yet? I hope not, because the revelation I had whilst basking in my post exercise, fire-roasted, full-bellied glow, was that I need to embrace my happiness more, to acknowledge it and be thankful for it.  So often in our hectic, pressured lives we don’t take stock of all the lovely things we have and allow ourselves the luxury of revelling in the really good moments.

Back to the pub…The people on the next table didn’t look very happy (perhaps they should have sat closer to the fire!)  They ordered some swanky fresh orange juice and it came in a square glass.  A bit radical I know, but the man of the group looked at it like they had been offered a turd on toast (one of my Mum’s favourite sayings).  He asked his brow-beaten wife to go back and ask for a round glass.  When his steak and kidney pie arrived he eyed it with the utmost suspicion and gingerly prodded it with a fork.  This pub recently won “Best Pub in the North West” in the Good Pub Guide, so what he was frightened of I am not entirely sure.  His wife (I am saying wife but she could have been his mother because she was impossible to age) sighed as her prawn sandwich arrived.  “How am I going to be able to eat all of this?” she observed, clearly in a state of abject misery.  For Christ’s sake woman, it was two slices of granary bread (artisan bread admittedly) with some prawns in it.  What did she expect?  I was struck by their dogged determination to not enjoy themselves.  How can you not enjoy yourself in a country pub after an autumnal walk, sat next to a log fire?  (Perhaps the sight of my muddy socks was distressing them). Their bad mood was incomprehensible to me.

So because I like to analyse things, I decided to analyse my happiness today.  Apart from the obvious good fortune of having a day off without the kids to have a day of leisure in a lovely part of the world, there are plenty of things going on today that could have limited my happiness:

• The fact that I am suffering from a particularly nasty bout of cystitis (too much information I know but I need to set a scene) 
• The fact that I almost puked halfway up a hill because I was so out of breath and a little bit weak as a result of reason number 1.
• The fact that my husband flew over the handlebars of his bike and landed in a ditch (actually this was quite funny).
• The rather annoying speed at which my husband is losing weight simply by cutting out pies and chocolate.  
• The ageing process, particularly around the eye area.  Why do men look better with eye crinkles than women (again not fair)?
• The fact that it has rained for months.
• Being sat next to a group of miserable walkers who don’t know a good steak and kidney pie when they see one.

Look at all this negativity.  Seen from a different perspective today could have been a bit miserable but luckily for me, I was in the right frame of mind to shrug it all off and rejoice in my happiness.

When we arrived home we discovered that our son’s school had been trying to contact us because he was ill (not really ill, just trying it on a bit).  Having failed to reach us on our mobiles (no signal in the Lake District idyll), they contacted my Dad who joked that the school probably hadn’t been able to reach us as, “they like to turn their phones off when they go out on a drinking session.”  He’s a funny guy my Dad!  Nonetheless, he picked up our not-very-poorly son and then walked our dog.  That’s two more reasons for happiness in my book.

So notwithstanding water infections, minor accidents and miserable day trippers from Lancashire, today was a good day. Happiness is about perspective. My new mantra is…To not know when I am the lucky recipient of good fortune is a total waste of that good fortune*.

* This suspiciously sounds like it came out of a fortune cookie – it didn’t, I promise.

Back on Track

The kids went back to school last week and the nation’s parents breathed a collective sigh of relief. I love my children more than life itself but seven weeks is a long time, especially when Summer decides to not actually bother turning up. There were moments of delight: a few days in the glorious East Neuk of Fife in Scotland eating award-winning fish and chips and breathing in the salty tang of seaweed, a couple of days on the shores of Coniston Water with a picnic, canoe and fleeces and meeting up with friends at the local park for a good gossip BUT if I was being really honest it wasn't the dreamy summer I had been hoping for (see previous blog about me aiming too high in School's out for Summer).

So last Tuesday night the school uniforms were ironed (the one and only time this happens during the entire school year), packed lunches were made and PE kits were re-assembled.  Wednesday morning dawned bright and sunny. This happens every single year - seven weeks of rain during the holidays, first day back at school and the sun comes out to play.  As I dropped my youngest at nursery, parents were giddily chattering, catching up with each other and much to my relief everyone appeared to have same excited glint in their eye. There was a collective sense of relief that it was all over for another year.  I might be “projecting” my own emotions on to these other parents; for all I know they were all absolutely gutted to be giving the care of their children over to professionals for 6 hours a day, but I suspect not.  I am sure I saw one Mum skipping out of the gate of the Nursery.  I personally chose to reign the skipping in a bit and chose to celebrate with my husband (also off work – woo hoo) with a cappuccino and a slice of toast with Nutella in the garden with only the sounds of the birds to break the silence.

The goddess Vicky Pendleton wearing an impractical
alternative to lycra.  The chafing must be horrendous.

We then decided to take advantage of our child-free day with a bike ride round Coniston – a route we do quite often.  However I am by nature an optimist and thought it would really enhance the day if we extended the usual 14 mile route by actually setting off from our house and doing a return trip (32 miles).  I haven’t exercised at all for seven weeks so why I thought a 32 mile bike ride up some massive hills would be a good idea is anybody’s guess. We set off up the hill out of town and five minutes later we passed my Dad standing at the end of his road holding out water bottles (actually a half-drunk bottle of tonic and some tepid lemon water). He later said it was his way of making us feel like “Wiggo” and “Cav”. This made me chuckle (actually “wheeze” is a more accurate description) and slightly ominously I was feeling the strain in my legs even at this early stage of our cycling endeavour. Our optimistic, over-ambitious plans were a surely a recipe for disaster. However I am delighted to tell you that it was utterly brilliant.  The sun shone, the lake sparkled and the prawn sandwich and triple fried chunky chips at the pub half way round were sublime.

We couldn’t walk when we got back and I had to apply Germoline to areas for which Germoline was probably not designed but we were on a post-exercise, sunshine vitamin D induced high. My mother-in-law then made the most enormous roast beef dinner (on a Wednesday night!!).

So exhausted and with a tummy full of roast potatoes I decided that this was the day I would start to get back on track with my MS diet and fitness plan and decided to log the exercise on my caloriecounter.com app.  I was ecstatic about the 1500 calories I had burned on the bike, not so thrilled about the 2500 calories I apparently had consumed that day.  I weighed myself and discovered I have put on four pounds since the start of the holidays.  Hacked off doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Those of you have read my previous blogs will know that I am supposed to be following an ultra healthy low fat diet and it doesn’t take a genius to work out that triple-fried chunky chips and midweek roast beef dinners are not a part of this plan.  It is not rocket science, over the past seven weeks I have had a glass or two of red wine most nights, I have eaten chocolate, chips, cake, ice cream, lots of bread, butter -  in fact a lot of the things I ate regularly before I started the diet in January and to put it bluntly, I feel like crap.  My residual MS Symptoms which were leftover from last year’s big relapse have started to make their presence felt again, I feel lethargic and my hands and legs are tingling.  My body is giving me one big HINT – get off your lardy arse and start eating vegetables again.

Perhaps part of me was still a little sceptical about the impact that a change in lifestyle could have on my MS. But the last few weeks have been a huge wake-up call. Surely it is too much of a coincidence that as soon as I stop following the diet and exercise regime, my MS seems to suffer.

So it is time to stop the denial, shift my mind-set again and try and re-discover my enthusiasm for healthy living.   This will not be easy – I love cheese, I am yet to be convinced of the merits of Quorn, and “Homes under the Hammer” is back on BBC1, but there is nothing like some ominous tingling in your feet to focus your mind.

Friends with Benefits

Before you ask, I am not talking about that kind of “Friends with Benefits”.  I know the score; I’ve seen the film.  Luckily for my husband there are not too many Justin Timberlake look-a-likes hanging around in Cumbria desperately wanting to be my “mate” (note the deliberate use of air quotation marks to denote the double meaning).

I am talking about those friends who enrich my life, supporting, gossiping and laughing me out of any situation no matter how dire.  Put simply, I owe my mental health to them.

A few weeks ago I had a minor medical scare to do with my “lady bits”.  In the grand scheme of things it wasn’t a big deal but for some reason I went into a panicky melt-down.  I started Googling my symptoms which was a huge mistake because, as any internet hypochondriac will know, all Google searches will eventually lead you to the conclusion that you have a terminal illness.  By the time I visited my GP (a lovely and enthusiastic woman clearly not yet jaded by years of malingerers and sick note chasers), I was an emotional wreck.  She took one look at me (and my ladybits) and said in a kind voice, “Is everything OK?” and I did the emotional equivalent of a projectile vomit. I reeled off a list of everything that has happened in the past two years – the trauma of losing my sister-in-law, my Grandad, nearly losing my Mum on several occasions, a whopping big MS attack.  It all came out in one big messy, snotty splurge in the GP’s room.  I registered (between the sobs) that the lovely, fresh Doctor was looking faintly alarmed.  She was probably panicking that I would overstay my allotted 5 minutes.  However, she did what any good Doctor would do – she gave me a tissue and told me to have a chat with my loved ones (friends, family) about how I felt and failing that, suggested that I self-refer to the local counselling service.

The thing is – she was right.  There are very few problems that cannot be solved, or at least, partly surmounted by a good old chat with your friends (and when I say friends I would also include my husband and sister in that category).  Over coffee and / or glasses of Shiraz depending on the time of day, I worked out that my emotional meltdown had absolutely nothing to do with my “ladybits” and everything to do with the stress of trying to keep my family safe and functioning during some very dark times.  This trivial little illness allowed me to be vulnerable for the first time in a long time – for once I wasn’t the strong one.  My friends didn’t give me advice or practical solutions, they gave me what I needed most – a shoulder to cry on and a good giggle. They laughed, supported and gossiped me out of my funk and made me realise that friendship is the best therapy of all.

A close friend of mine has recently undergone several weeks of radiotherapy for a recurrent pituitary tumour.  I was honoured when she asked me to go shopping for wigs with her. This is an experience that will live long in the memory.  NHS wig voucher in hand, my friend declared a desire to get a “Cheryl Cole”, tried on a “Blanche from the Golden Girls” before wisely opting for a “Jennifer Aniston”.   We found ourselves sucking complimentary Murray Mints in a Preston salon being entertained with wig horror stories (the woman who spent £3000 on a natural hair wig and got it cut, horror of horrors, by a normal hairdresser – it never looked right).

I can only imagine what my dear friend has gone through over the past few months and getting fitted for a synthetic wig in case your hair falls out doesn’t immediately spring to mind as anyone’s idea of a “top day out”.  But we genuinely had a good laugh.  That’s what friends are for – bringing a little bit of joy into the darkest of places.

As a footnote – you will, I am sure, all be delighted to know that all is well with my ladybits according to my gynaecologist. Although it was slightly disconcerting to be asked, “What are you doing for your holidays?” (in a hairdresser type way) whilst he inserted the speculum.

School's out for Summer

The school summer holidays are enough to strike the fear into the heart of even the most child-centred parent (and I don’t really count myself as one of those.) Every year I fall into the same trap of thinking “this year it will be different”.  I am by nature a glass half-full kind of person so as soon as the sun comes out I start fantasising about perfect family picnics and Jamie Oliver style barbecues.  I have visions of warm, hazy, golden days where my children are at one with nature and occupy themselves for hours while I lie on a vintage picnic rug (which I will have picked up from a junk shop for 10p – how clever) eating strawberries, reading a book, glass of wine in hand.  Most importantly I will have perfected a boho chic summer wardrobe that looks great with the vintage picnic rug.  I think you get the picture and it should be blindingly obvious that I AIM TOO HIGH!

This is the reality of my summer holidays so far:

It has been raining since March and shows no signs of stopping. I could almost bear this when I felt  (to quote our Prime Minister) like “we were all in this together”. But then the South (and by South, I mean south of Preston) went all hot and sunny.  Cue all Radio 1 DJ’s and BBC newsreaders talking about the glorious weather, when half the country is still under a dirty big cloud.   Anyway, BBC-bias rant aside, what this means is that I have three children cooped up in the house all day and a husband who is working away for the next 19 days.  The blue-skied, golden fantasy of cooperative siblings being at one with nature is, in reality, three bickering kids fighting over who goes on the iPad next.

The obvious response to this predicament (and the path which my sister has decided to take) is to turn to 5 p.m. glasses of red wine (served with copious amounts of cheese and crackers) to help numb the pain.  However this is a slightly problematic approach for someone who is supposed to be on an MS low saturated fat diet plan.

So I need an alternative plan and I have decided that being pro-active is the way forward.  I keep reminding myself that this time last year I had two whopping MS attacks and was basically off my feet and out of action for two months.  The summer holidays were a total wipeout for both me and the kids.  I didn’t even get as far as the fantasy last year – I was too busy concentrating on getting better. This year (touch wood) I am at least fit and healthy so I am determined to make the next few weeks as fun as possible.

With this is mind, on Tuesday I rang my lovely friend in London and asked her if it would be OK if the kids and I came down on the train to stay with her this weekend, with the intention of soaking up some Olympic atmosphere and watching the Men’s Cycling Road Race which passes near to her house. Her response was so enthusiastic I immediately booked the tickets and we are heading down South on Saturday morning. The kids are so excited they can’t sleep. During one conversation with my friend the word “picnic” was mentioned and suddenly the warm, hazy fantasy had become a little bit more of a possibility.  All brilliant, except that I have just checked the forecast and apparently it is raining in London on Sunday!

More pro-active news:

Yesterday my sister and I took the kids to the local agricultural show.  Sounds idyllic doesn’t it?  We travelled on an open top bus (great), got a deal on a family ticket by pretending we were lesbians with kids* (bargain) and then spent the next three hours listening to our children whining about going on fair rides / bouncy castles / donkey rides / harrier jet simulators / bungee ropes(all hideous). The kids weren’t even that interested in the animals.   Thank God my Dad arrived with his bonhomie and more importantly his wallet.

Admittedly not a great start to my new pro-active approach but I am determined to stick with it.  Next week I am determined to go up to Coniston and mess about in the lake whatever the weather.  That’s what waterproofs and flasks of coffee are for.  Just maybe the sun will come out, the countryside will be transformed into a green and pleasant land and I can lie on my picnic rug reading a book and grab a few minutes peace before the bickering starts. I told you, I am a glass half-full person.


* this is not strictly true.  The Rotary Club very kindly offered us a family ticket on the basis of us being sisters not lesbians.

Hello Blondie

Back to Blonde

I am blonde again. This is NOT a self-deprecating statement about my mental acumen, I am literally blonde, with a headful of freshly highlighted hair. This might give you a clue that I am not in fact a natural blonde (that prestigious status only lasted for the first three years of my life). However since the tender age of 11 when I discovered the dubious but addictive bleaching effects of “Sun-In”, I have for most of my adult life been varying shades of honey, platinum, gold and mouse (my natural colour). There have been two notable deviations from this: eight years ago when I went red (I loved it, everyone else hated it) and in January when I became a brunette.

My muse Zooey Deschanel

The brunette thing was inspired by a huge girl crush on the gorgeous, kooky Zooey Deschanel (I was addicted to the US series “New Girl”). So when the hairdresser told me that my hair was breaking off and needed a break from the bleach, I took up her offer to “make me look like Cheryl Cole” - a bold assertion given the raw materials she was working with (a 39 year old mother of three with wobbly bits). Hairdressers (actually women in general), live for this type of makeover thing - (what else can explain Gok Wan's meteoric rise to fame?) and in the salon people kept popping over to the chair to see how it was looking. Anyway she did me proud and with a post-colour endorphin rush I unleashed my new chocolate brown locks on the world…This is how it went:

Husband: Jesus, how long will that last?….
8 year old: (in tears) What have you done to your hair?
3 year old: (genuinely bemused) Where has your yellow hair gone Mummy?

I suddenly had flashbacks to the time when I was 14 and had my hair restyled from a “Princess Di” flick to a “Pat and Mick” mullet and a boy in my class actually cried.  I had that kind of magnetic power over boys when I was 14 (sadly now much-diminished).

Although I loved my new “Zooey” hair and even received the odd compliment from my loyal friends and, rather unexpectedly, from my generally non-gushing Mother, I could not help shrug the feeling that people weren’t that fussed on it. I didn’t really care that much and despite these initial setbacks I was revelling in my new look and embarked on a hair-colour love affair which lasted 6 months. Here are the good things about being brunette:

I can pretend I look like Zooey Deschenal.
I have classier root re-growth. No tell-tale black roots.
I don’t look as “washed-out”.
I can pretend I have mysterious Celtic ancestry (blue eyes, dark hair).

Here are some of the bad things:
I don’t look like Zooey Deshenal no matter how much I pretend.
My root re-growth had grey bits in it (you don’t see the grey when blonde).
I still looked a bit washed-out.
The Celtic ancestry thing is much overrated and if I wear black I look a “bit gothy”.

Embracing "The Dark Side"

So this week I was booked in with the hairdresser and I decided to leave the “dark side” and go back to my non-natural blonde roots.  I arrived clutching some pictures of good-hair goddesses Jennifer Aniston and JLo and tried not to feel offended when one of the hairdressers said, (chuckling wickedly) “Sorry love, we don’t do plastic surgery in this salon!” There was a palpable air of excitement as my hairdresser mixed up the bleach, probably due to the fact she is now being able to charge me £30 more for highlights rather than a block colour.

So £80 and 4 hours later I am blonde again and I am having to re-adjust to a world where I can wear black clothes and red lipstick without looking like the lead singer out of Swing Out Sister. All reactions so far have been positive. My husband said it was like “having a new wife”. My brother-in-law said I looked “hot” (cue horror in equal measures from both me and my sister).  My Dad said it was lovely (he never passed comment when I was brunette – he is a born diplomat).  My 3 year old said, “Why is your hair yellow again Mummy?”  I even got a beep of the horn (not a euphemism) from a van of builders today, but then again I might just have been in their way when crossing the road.

So what important life lesson can I learn from this foray into the world of brunette, aside from the fact that a more peachy toned lipstick is a more flattering look for brown hair?  Not much; I still maintain that there is a lot to be said for having a “Zooey” but I have to accept the harsh fact that, at least in the eyes of my husband, gentlemen do prefer blondes.



Sorry not much MS stuff here apart from my totally unscientifically proven theory that high dose oral steroids can affect the condition of your hair.