I’ve had the chop. My beautiful 30 inch platinum blonde hair is now a very short bob.
The big reveal failed. My sister was meant to shout ‘Joe! You're one beauty’. The perfect Little Women reference to add a bit of drama to the occasion. It was all planned. She forgot. You ask for one thing!
Anyway, I didn’t need any rehearsed shouting. It was totally fine. My Auntie (hairdresser from the 80’s) came and did a kitchen cut. I thought it was going to be horrendously emotional and I couldn’t think of anything worse than being sat in a hairdresser. Or paying £100 for the privilege when it’s only going to last a few more weeks. I love the style and now I’m a bit annoyed I didn’t go for the change earlier. 20 inches of hair packed up and ready to go to the Little Princess Trust. I hope someone else can make use of what I can’t.
I feel like this week has been a week of preparation. Making the most out knowing what is to come and trying to make the best of a bad job. I’ve spent a total of 7 hours getting my brows, eye liner and lip stick tattooed on. If I’m going to feel like shit I’m certainly not going to look like it as well. I’ve also bought turbans, scarfs, hats and every accessory going in every shape and size to wear once the rest of my hair must go the journey. My gel nails are off, the black nail varnish is out, and all of my body jewelry has been taken out ahead of my MRI scan on Monday.
For everything that I try and prepare for and take control over, something else comes along to take away more of my identity. Adding any sparkle to me and the situation right now is what is needed.
Let’s pour a wine and get the tunes on.
