Out of the mouths of babes

Now I know that few will have sympathy for my current plight, so just listen up and laugh if you want to. My babysitting kidlets all did…

I’ve been hairdresser-shy for about six months now, after a fiasco cut and colour last May for which I paid a staggering £80. Since then I’ve lived in ponytails, waiting patiently for the hideous monstrosity to grow out. That is, until this week.

With my old work’s Christmas dinner looming (yep, I was invited) I really wanted to make a statement and stand out from the crowd. It was the perfect time to shed the ponytail and embrace the bob, so I looked online for the best salons. For perfection, I was prepared to pay!

And then, like all good Google surfers, I came across a ‘deal’. At Gina Conway Notting Hill they were offering a £10 razor haircut by one of their top stylists as he trained other members of staff. It was like the Gods of Saving Pennies were smiling down on me, so I called up and booked in my appointment. But as quickly as my good luck came my good luck skedaddled and the training session was postponed, until further notice. They told me they’d keep my name on the books but couldn’t guarantee when I’d be called back in. So I logged back online – now that I’d been offered a cut for almost nothing, the thought of paying retail seemed preposterous – and came across an ad on Gumtree: Free bob haircut this Wednesday only.

Ah hah… What was this?

This, it turned out was an opportunity to be a training stylists guinea pig and I, stupidly, signed up. I thought I asked the clever questions… How long had he been training? Three years. When did he graduate? “Oh I’ve already completed my college component,” he said. I figured what real damage could he do.

Severe, as it turned out. This guy took ‘slow and steady’ to the enth degree; to cut straight he had to constantly re-water my hair – upon the ever more aggravated advice of his tutor – which left my neck chilled and stiff. He cut higher and higher until inside I started to panic. But then like I so often do in these situations, I started to feel sorry for the guy; I root for the underdog. I mean he has to learn somehow, doesn’t he?

A pile of hair and almost three hours later he dusted me off and thanked me for my patience. I mumbled a, “You’re welcome. Thanks so much.” And made for a quick exit.

Really wanting to just go home and curl up into a ball – on the tube I looked jealously over at a Muslim girl in her hijab – instead I had to make the trek to go pick up Masters Nine and Twelve from school. Ever-considerate Master Nine looked at me quizzically for a moment and then commented that my head looked “weird”, while later that afternoon Miss Six more theatrically pointed and exclaimed, “I hate it.” Thanks chickens, that’s just what I needed.

My more adult friends have struggled to reassure me that the haircut isn’t all that bad but I can see the glint in their eyes and the strain on their faces as they attempt not to break into giggles. My head resembles that of a mushroom. I’m Madeline, mais dans la brune!

Winter Wonderland

London is officially in the Christmas-swing. The lights are up around the city – the West End sparkles but it’s the Carnaby Street snowmen that really steal the show – and people are busy late night shopping to find the perfect something for their family and friends. It’s times like these I miss having my family close by.

And while I certainly didn’t spend five years at university to be a nanny, right now it’s nice to feel included in their families; even if it means I have six extra children to buy presents for!

Last Friday I took one of my kidlets, Miss Twelve, and her friend to Hyde Park’s Winter Wonderland – pre-opening night VIP tickets, of course. We tried out the ice rink, with each girl taking me round the first few times to get my ice-legs warmed up (who’s looking after who you may ask?), screamed our lungs out on the roller coaster, got lost in the Hall of Mirrors, and enjoyed a 360-degree view of London as we were propelled round on giant swings. We ate giant pretzels, drank hot cocoa from traditional German boot mugs, and devoured more than our fair share of chocolate covered strawberries… I really can’t complain.

Once the park closed up we cabbed it back to their Sloane Square abode, picking up my other Miss Twelve (twins) from her friend’s house on the way, to watch Corrina, Corrina (I can’t believe I was eleven when that first came out) while their parents entertained dinner guests upstairs. I felt just like a big sister, and truly I couldn’t have planned a nicer way to spend a Friday evening.

Hyde Park Winter Wonderland
When: 22 November 2008 -04 January 2009; 10:00-22:00
Where: Hyde Park
Nearest Tube: Hyde Park Corner... Cost: £7.50-£12.50

Strike a pose... Vogue

For those of you, dear readers, who are time-poor as well as cash-poor this holiday season, check out the best (and brilliant!) bits of December's UK Vogue with this, my second review for Girl With A Satchel...

GIRL WITH A SATCHEL... The Assistant makes her first cameo appearance

Okay, I've been a bit busy lately, what with daily Bikram (I finished The Challenge and am hooked on for another 30 days), Beautcamp and then taking care of the kidlets (oops, scraped their car on the school-run yesterday... eek!)... so I apologise for my lack of posts.

But I did scrounge together a few hours at the weekend to review some mags for fellow blogger and kinda my mentor, Ms GWAS. Check it out!

One-unders

At lunchtime yesterday, as the United States was celebrating the victory of America’s first African-American president and Great Britain was preparing for their annual bonfire night – to commemorate the life of the English Roman Catholic revolutionary, Guy Fawkes – a London man threw himself under a train at Liverpool Street station.

Announcements were made over the intercoms of all London Underground lines apologising for the delay to services, as there was a person under a train. These pre-recorded broadcasts are replayed over and over, lacking in emotion and evoking even less from the crowd of passengers inconvenienced by the suicidal person’s final statement; the frequency of such tube announcements resulting in a numbing of society.

Maybe it was because I wasn’t in much of a rush yesterday, but for some reason hearing this news truly made me stop and be thankful for all the ‘good’ I have in my life. Because this guy obviously thought his had hit rock bottom.

Last year in the UK, 194 people killed themselves on the tracks of mass-transit systems, with 50 of those people taking their final leap in the depths of the Underground (this compares with New York’s average of 26 subway suicides each year).* I remember years ago hearing of one of my sister’s friends jumping, a boy she’d known through her school years, he was barely twenty-five.

They call them “one-unders”. And emergency services are on alert each day, ready to clean up the debris, in the interest of an efficient transport system. Apparently the peak hour for tube suicides is 11am – when everyone else is deliberating about what to eat for lunch.

I can’t imagine the horror of feeling that your only option out of the mess and pain of your life is to throw yourself head first into an oncoming train. There can be no more public display of your agony. And then there’s the driver. They get a front row seat as you smash against the windscreen of their train; having your bloody mess of a body etched into their memory long after your ashes are gathering dust. I maintain a belief that suicide is the ultimate selfish act, for it’s those around you – the living – that are forced to deal with all the problems you decided you couldn’t face anymore.

So my heart goes out to the family and friends of yesterday’s jumper. He’s nameless. It seems that with an average of one tube suicide each week the deaths of these people are no longer newsworthy.

Mind, Body, Sweat-it

It’s been well over two years since I’ve worn the label of a Bikram devotee, but yesterday I braced myself for a ‘Return to Form,’ of sorts, and signed up for a 10-day challenge at Bikram’s new Balham Studios.

Easing myself into my first 10am practice, I made sure not to eat any breakfast – lest my half-digested muesli make an unwanted appearance during Trikanasana (Warrior) pose – and arrived early to class so that my body might get used to the 40°C room temperature. It didn’t take long for my mind-memory to click into gear and start internally screaming: “Abort mission, abort mission” but I powered through… not least because the class had yet to even start!

Bikram, or Hot Yoga, is a style of yoga developed in the 1960s by Calcuttan native, Bikram Choudhury. It consists of a series of 26 postures (asanas) that are carried out over 90-minutes in a heated room whilst class members are in silent meditation.

I signed up for my first class about four years ago, while I was still at university. I immediately loved it. Undoubtedly exhausting, Bikram is truly a mind-over-matter endurance sport; and true to form, I became addicted. For more than eighteen-months I practiced between two and three classes a week, partaking in ‘Karma’ Bikram whereby I helped out in the studio and was paid in classes. Then one day I thought, “Enough!” And that was it. I hung up my non-slip mat and didn’t look back.

Until New York.

One of the fabulous people I met while living in NYC was an Aussie jazz singer who had recently taken up The Challenge. She radiated a positive energy and had a body to die for, so once again I took to the studio. Only this time my mind-body-spirit just wasn’t into it. Not even a third of the way through the class I had to pack up mat and towel and escape the oppressive heat. I felt defeated.

So I have to admit that when the flyer came in the mail a few months back to advertise a new studio opening just down the road, I was a little hesitant. If only because I didn’t want to risk being ‘that person’ again, who couldn’t hack the heat!

Luckily my chakras seem to be aligned this time round and I’m pumped about the next eight days. Day One was definitely a challenge but this morning’s class was fantastic. My muscles were strong, my mind focused and the sweat poured out of me in constant streams. To all those who powered through the class with me, “Namasté”