Here come the girls...

I'm not too sure where the last two weeks have gone.  

It's been a whirlwind of men dressed as women (Cabaret at the theatre), women in hats (Henley Regatta) and the small matter of daughter number one's hen weekend.

Now I can talk in length about the first two, but as everyone knows, what happens on hen do, stays on hen do.  I have seen and heard things that will be imprinted on my mind forever, but I shan't inflict you with any of it (no matter how much you pay me!)  All I will say is that daughter number two did a great job on the organisational front, and daughter number one was thrilled with the whole thing.  Maybe not so happy when she was inside a six foot penguin costume in 30 degrees trying to grab sponges from the bridesmaids, but it certainly made me chortle.

So we are now in full pre-wedding hoo-ha.  A dress has been bought, shoes have been matched and strong knickers invested in to make sure that all is gathered in (Harvest Festival Knickers as the mother calls them).  So all that is left is the face and hair....

So during lockdown, the husband asked me if I'd mind growing my hair longer as he rather liked it that way.  Well, I am nothing if not a people pleaser, and he was, at the time of asking, clinging to my ankles and crying as I headed off to a monthly appointment with my hairdresser for a trim, screaming 'Don't do it!', so I have left it to grow.  I should have gone to the salon about a month ago for a trim and to have my hair coloured in (root touch up in case you're wondering whether my hair is 'colour by numbers') but as the wedding was so close, I decided to hang on till the last minute to get the maximum benefit from my pennies.  

Which is all very well if you like waking up to Don King every morning.  The husband has a good old laugh before heading off to work, and then I rifle through my drawers (the wooden ones, not aforementioned Harvest Festival attire) looking for something robust to tame back the frizz and hide the dark parting which is almost down to my ears now. By the time I get to the salon next week, I think my poor hairdresser will take one look at me and swap the normal scissors for a set of sheep shears.  But it will be worth it, so I'm hanging on in there.

And then there is the face.  At 58 and three quarters, there was an element of stuff which could no longer be hoisted, smoothed or removed so I took to the internet to find a new miracle worker.  My last one moved to Scotland with no forwarding address, such was the fear that I would track her down begging for one of her wonderful facials.  To be honest, I think that having to wear a hard hat when she did a pedicure was getting a bit much.  But when you have a body which is dropping as fast as mine is, you can't be too careful I suppose.

My new miracle worker is lovely, and very good at pretending she can't see certain areas of me which show the ravages of time.  So I think we are going to get along just fine.  To be honest, if I don't wear my glasses, when I look in the mirror I reckon I could pass for thirty five.

If only I could encourage everyone I come into contact with to do the same, I could save a fortune...