I've done something today that usually frightens the life out of me. I went to a new hairdresser. Now you might think that that's really silly to be frightened of someone wielding a pair of scissors - but it's not. Hairdressers are notorious for cutting off too much - turning a fringe into a pelmet and hacking away at the back where you can't see until she whips out a mirror and says, what do you think? By then it's too late. The tresses are gone, the neck is bare and my face is visible to all. A scary thought. I like to really know my hairdresser - to be secure in the knowledge she is listening to me, knows what I want and does as I ask. So a new one is a terrifying ordeal. She has to be trained into my way of thinking. Has to know my particular foibles, as well as my follicles (is that how you spell it? It's too late to dig out the dictionary now) and generally pamper to my every whim. I'm not usually bossy, but I've had the odd - very odd - ghastly experience of hairdressers, so approaching a new member of the sisterhood is a daunting prospect.
But I should not have feared - and here, Chris, I give you my apologies for being unfaithful to you - but when the grey has come through in six inch tramlines along the top of my head, there is no other solution but to try and find a suitable replacement! For those of you in the dark, Chris is a brilliant hairdresser - but she lives in Cornwall, and as I had a bad back last time I was there and couldn't take advantage of her brilliant services, I've had to resort to finding a more local expert. It seems I was worrying needlessly. My hair has been beautifully cut, coloured and generally beautified from the previous sunbleached, tangled mess it was, and I feel so much better that I can actually face my reflection in a mirror. It's been a while.
Other news. Him indoors is going to be a grandfather again - and it's another girl. She will be born when we are in Australia celebrating my eldest son's birthday - but Christmas will be enhanced with her arrival.
Our new cat, Tilly is sitting on my lap, trying to help me write this blog. Not helpful at all. She can not only not spell, but she can't type either, and if I dare to try and get her off the keyboard, she swears at me. Nice. Nothing like snarling at the hand that feeds, cossets, strokes and fusses. Why do I love cats so much when actually they are selfish, stuck up, and generally antisocial except when they want to be?
My second son lives in Thailand and his sister is visiting him at the moment. He's broke as usual, but I seem to have become deaf to pleas of poverty. He's fallen off his scooter so can't do his diving at the moment and is scratching a living by teaching others to take underwater films - I suppose scratching is the wrong word really, as he's managed to scrape a good deal of his skin off on the rubble that's called a road in Koh Tao! Now he's moaning that his sister has brought the rain - I hate to tell him, but I thought it was monsoon season anyway!? I could be wrong.
Better go, talking rubbish and it's late, and I have to get everything done tomorrow morning nice and early so I can lounge about all afternoon and watch the tennis at Wimbledon. It's a terrible time waster, tennis at Wimbledon, but it wouldn't be summer without it. That and strawberries and cream. Some things are so British and so delicious they are impossible to resist. Good night!