Style: Vibrant, colourful
Listening to: I think it’s the Bee Gees (on the radio, I hasten to add – they DO NOT feature on my mp3 player)
What’s on today: 12pm: Haircut; 2pm: Mr P’s football match; 8pm: Out for drinks with Mr P and friends
Ahh, the hairdressers. My eight weekly, hour long window of delight is scheduled for today. And not before time judging by the lank stringiness of my fringe.
I love going to the hairdressers. Mine is sparkly and white, smells of strawberries and is filled with friendly, smily girlies. The whole process is wonderfully decadent: you get a drink, someone washes your hair and gives you a head massage and when you leave, gleamingly barnetted, you feel fabulous.
What’s better than all that though is the chance to catch up on all manner of salacious, celebrity tittle-tattle in the Heat and OK! magazines the lovely hairdresser places next to your glass of OJ. I’m a bit of a magazine snob – I wouldn’t dream of actually buying a copy of Heat but when I get my grubby little mits on an edition, I’m lapping up the photographs of Kelly Brook’s cellulite like it’s vodka-flavoured ice cream.
My hairdresser, Kerri, is a very sweet girl of about 20. She was telling me today about her boyfriend, Martin, who she’s been with for 6 years (yes, since the age of 14, maths fans – yikes!) He proposed in a tremendously romantic fashion a couple of years ago but when I asked her when the big day was, she said “oh no, he doesn’t want to marry me, he just thought we should get engaged”. And Kerri seemed quite happy with this set-up too.
This revelation got me thinking about engagement. I am a completely sappy romantic, I’ve often daydreamed about Mr P proposing to me and the subsequent wedding because that is the natural progression, isn’t it? What’s the point of a grand engagement and a big, shiny rock if it isn’t followed by a white dress and the “I do” bit? Is a band of gold enough to ensure security, to pronounce your love to the world, to showcase eternal commitment?
It’s certainly a cheaper alternative but, to me, having the engagement and skipping the wedding is like an hour of super-hot passionate foreplay only for you and your chosen player to curl up and go to sleep – infinitely frustrating and frankly pointless.
Mr P’s football team won 8-1. He hobbled off the pitch after 80 minutes when his hamstrings popped. I don’t often volunteer my WAGish, spectatorly skills at Mr P’s games; fear of getting smacked in the face by the ball / Mr P getting into a punch-up tend to keep me away. Still, that cracking scoreline made it worth the constant fear. And the portly, Colonel Mustard lookalike ref fell over during a centre-half scuffle. Bonus.
Tonight’s sartorial style will be ‘pretty punk’: taupe coloured vest with organza sleeves, black ra-ra mini skirt, knee high Kurt Geiger’s and my lovely, new military jacket.
Simple Pleasures: Fat people falling over.
Pet Peeves: This stupid can’t-make-its-mind up weather. Coat or no coat? Tights or bare legs? And the decision you make is ALWAYS wrong.