I love Oscar Wilde but I have to call bullshit on this quote. The artist is the creator of beautiful things? Beautiful to whom? If beauty like they say, lies in the eyes of the beholder, then which…


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A Bad Hair Year


Lesson learned: Orange is NOT the new black. (Or, blond.)

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Defining what a bad hair day is has changed as I have gotten older. It used to be when my hair flopped over into curls that I hadn’t asked for, or when the hairdresser had cut it too short or had created a bob. I still have a definite hate of the age-old bob, the only style some hairdressers seem able to cut. It really doesn’t suit me, it’s far too neat and puts about 20 years on my face.

These days I try to avoid hairdressers. They remind me of estate agents; creating an incredible vision while promising the impossible. In the past I end up pulling at my bob while walking to the car, thinking it was a waste of time and money, not forgetting the banal high pitched are-you-going-anywhere-nice conversation I have to endure.

My hair used to be naturally curly, golden blond, like the authentic Scandinavian that I am. By my mid 30’s it went a mousy, nondescript shade that wasn’t really a colour. It lost its lush thickness probably due to the stress of being a single mum. Nature has a funny way of putting an end to beauty.

Then something strange happened. In my 40’s my hair began to regress: it started a journey of becoming blond again, with natural highlights. In fact, there were a few weeks when it looked beautiful again.

I now have fine, flyaway, curly/wavy hair, which is blond/grey/white. That is until about a year ago when I decided to do something different. I wanted to add some colour to give my hair a little life, so I bought a home dye: strawberry blond. My husband, who once bleached his own hair many years ago, applied the colour saying that of course, he knew how to do this.

It was a cold, dark winter’s evening and it didn’t improve from there. As I felt him daubing on the colour, I reminded him to massage it in all over. He did. Or so I’d thought. Now, he isn’t the type of guy who will tell you straight if you look awful, and he didn’t have to. As my hair dried his face looked as if he was weighing up whether to do a runner or stay silent in the hope that I wouldn’t see what he was looking at. I stared at my reflection in the mirror and what I had imagined would be a light covering of strawberry blond, had turned patchy orange, not…

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