Dye Dilemma.

(I know I’m not Hale Berry, but we all take inspiration from somewhere!)

Stress. A word we hear every day but have no concept of what it can actually do to the human body.

I have had recent experience of the joys of ‘stress’. One of which was losing a lot of my hair. I have never had amazing hair. My mother had stunning black, curly locks, my father had fine blonde (almost white), resulting in my fine, fluffy dark brown. I think the hair gene had taken a coffee break when I was being conceived! One ex kindly called it ‘your messy hair’.  Some nerve, coming from a guy who is going bald!!

Thankfully it is now returning, but it has completely changed colour. Instead of dark it is returning a sort of silvery white/grey. This was somewhat depressing at first and resulted in much wrangling with a multitude of hair dyes to hide it, never really successfully, a little bit always managed to ‘escape’.

After much thought and many frustrating hours with hair dye, I have decided to ‘go commando’ so to speak. No more fighting with packages promising ‘rich, enhancing colour’. I shall wait and see what nature has decided I shall look like. Brave words coming from someone who has spent a lifetime in the clutches of L’Oreal and other such promisers of wonder.

I’m feeling good about it today. I may change my mind tomorrow, but that’s a woman’s prerogative…..



I love things with a wild passion, extravagantly. I cherish tongs, and scissors; I adore cups, hoops, soup turrents, not to mention of course- the hat. I love all things, not only the grand, but also the infinitely small: the thimble, spurs, dishes, vases.

Oh, my soul, the planet is radiant, teeming with pipes in hand, conductors of smoke; with keys, saltshakers, and well, things crafted by the human hand, everything- the curve of a shoe, fabric, the new bloodless birth of gold, the eyeglasses, nails, brooms, watches, compasses, coins, the silken plushness of chairs. Oh humans have constructed a multitude of pure things: objects of wood, crystal, cord, wondrous tables, ships, staircases.

I love all things, not because they might be warm or fragrant, but rather because- I don’t know why, because this ocean is yours, and mine: the buttons, the wheels, the little forgotten treasures, the fans of feathery love spreading orange blossoms, the cups, the knives, the shears, everything rests in the handle, the contour, the traces of fingers, of a remote hand lost in the most forgotten regions of the ordinary obscured. I pass through houses, streets, elevators, touching things; I glimpse objects and secretly desire something because it chimes, and something else because, because it is as yielding as gentle hips, something else I adore for its deepwater hue, something else for its velvety depths.

Oh irrevocable river of things. People will not say that I only loved fish or plants of the rain forest or meadow, that I only loved things that leap, rise, sigh, and survive. It is not true: many things gave me completeness. They did not only touch me. My hand did not merely touch them, but rather, they befriended my existence in such a way that with me, they indeed existed, and they were for me so full of life, and they lived with me half-alive, and they will die with me half-dead.