Rocking the silver – finding freedom at last

I never normally have a rant on my blog. But I woke up today, washed my now grey bobbed hair and decided it was time.

Two years ago I made the decision to stop my 40 plus years of hair colouring. I was 59. Initially I coloured my hair to enhance my mousy brown but now I was fighting a losing battle against the grey.  I’ve always done it myself so cost was not an issue. I just felt trapped. I wanted to finally be myself. And my hair was thinning at the front – noticeably. I asked a couple of hair-savvy acquaintances and they said it was ‘my age’. Rubbish. Years of harsh chemicals – originally I used semis but now I was touching up the roots every two weeks – had to have something to do with it. So I did my research. Not about why I should stop colouring but how to do it without resembling a badger.

There was a lot of stuff on YouTube for instance about the ‘process’ and I even bought a book on Amazon by Anne Kreamer called ‘Going Gray’ (American hence the spelling of gray) which would be my inspiration. I could dip into it every time I almost gave up. But if I really wanted to go grey it said in all the articles and videos I viewed online, it was all about preventing the dreaded ‘harsh line of demarcation’ (isn’t that something to do with setting boundaries to end a war?). Maybe this was my little war so I decided I needed to make an appointment with a proper hairdresser and discuss the process of going grey gracefully.

On recommendation the first hairdresser I visited for ‘help’ wasn’t really interested. Flicking back her obviously out-of-a-bottle bright red mane of hair she told me she had clients who spent £80 a month or so keeping their hair highlighted to disguise the grey. I saw red – literally. My hackles were up. We were not about to build a lasting relationship here. Firstly I don’t have £80 a month going spare and secondly I thought my ‘mane’ – and I use the term loosely – was a bit beyond that. It would take more than a truckload of dye to keep my greys at bay. But I wasn’t giving up on my I’m going grey and be damned plan that easily.

So I went to another hairdresser and had some highlights and low-lights put in to aid the growing out process but after a month or so I just ended up with a load of blended orange hair. This was now even worse. So I went cold turkey. At least the orange/grey demarcation was not as harsh as the otherwise dark brown/grey would have been but it still looked awful. But I could always buy a hat.

Then in July 2012 my husband was diagnosed with a pituitary tumour and had to go to hospital for surgery followed by weeks of recovery so the importance of my hair took a back seat. That’s not to say I didn’t freak out when I looked in the mirror, I just didn’t have time to deal with it. Or to dye it. We had our lives to redress. My hair would have to wait.

The first few months were the worst. My one length bob also made the growing out process harder so when I had about three inches of grey I had some layers put in. Now it didn’t look so bad. Another six months and it was tolerable. Two years down the line and I almost like it. A well-cut fashionable hairstyle is key. People comment. Usually favourably and no-one has said ‘You must be mad. I would never do it’, though I don’t hear what they whisper to each other when my back is turned. Occasionally they say ‘It’s OK for you. You have thick hair.’ Or ‘It suits you but it wouldn’t suit me,’ etc. But I feel liberated. No longer do I have to endure the tyranny of the big boys telling me that my natural hair colour is not good enough and I need to spend a fortune on their over-priced products which are no doubt killing the environment when they get washed down the drain. I can finally embrace the real me. And L’Oreal, Garnier and the rest can stick it.

Then there’s the problem of what to wear. Apart from wearing the ubiquitous monochrome black (because it makes you look slimmer) and white (only ever on the bottom half) I’ve always in reality been a ‘warm’ person steering towards rusts and browns and away from pastels or any ‘cool’ colours. I am still not sure what to do. I am told that red sets off grey hair perfectly but I don’t really like red. Rich purples and metallic colours like gold and slate grey compliment the grey, but stay away from yellow which in sunlight can make your hair look like you smoke 60 a day. My eyes are brown and my skin tone quite olive which can clash with the hair especially when suntanned though my husband likes the ‘contrast’. In photos it can look quite startling – and I don’t necessarily mean in a good way. But hey ho – any excuse to buy new clothes is OK with me.

Yes there are times when I see a thirty year old with gorgeous shiny dark brown hair and think, ‘That was me’. But I am not thirty any more. I don’t have the figure I had back then either or the energy but I am a different me. A wife, a parent to two wonderful sons and now a granny. So yes I am rocking the silver and it’s not that bad. It’s just different. People don’t treat you differently because you are grey. They treat you differently because you are 60. Get over it.

granny

Me All Your Life_sm

Advertisements

Poetically retentive

With mathematical precision I count every beat
From beginning to end of each line
They must be concise and perfect and true
And every so often must rhyme

No freedom of verse or lyrical waxing
No skipping a meter or two
Iambic, trochaic or even dactylic
I just can’t get away from this view

So give me the sound of a heroic couplet
At the end of a sonnet’s quatrain
And leave out the free in the dreaded ‘free verse’
From such abandon I choose to abstain

This looseness, this freedom, this modern approach
Would make Shakespeare quite turn in his grave
Sestinas and pantoums or even a haiku
Is the poetic challenge I crave

But sometimes I wish I could open the window
And let all the verses run free
Oh, the burden of being so precise all the time
Is boring the hell out of me!

An Irrational Fear of Dogs and other short stories for Kindle

“An Irrational Fear of Dogs” is a collection of short stories that is sometimes funny, sometimes dark, always entertaining:

An Irrational Fear of Dogs
The dog was staring at her with small red eyes, its slavering jaws ready to clamp around her small thin arm.The children are coming, the children are coming, look out, look out! Phoebe felt safe here in the bushes for now, but did they?

The Sweet Smell of Lilies
Lilies always reminded her of funerals. But then Grace was inclined to let her over-active imagination run away with her. Only this time, however, she couldn’t have imagined the real truth about her family.

Double Bill
Goodbye Sarah. I bet you thought we would be friends forever. How wrong you were.The two of us were going to stand here and watch as Bill’s coffin was lowered into the ground. But things don’t always turn out as you expect them to…

The Indulgence
‘How long have you been dead?’ asked the angel. ‘About 30 years,’ she replied, ‘is that my time?’ Tess was becoming impatient, ‘What’s my indulgence, are you going to tell me what it is?’‘Tomorrow’, the angel told her…

Believing in Fairies
‘Help us,’ I hear you say. ‘If they stop believing in us, we’ll vanish forever.’Mia’s world was one of waking dreams, but no-one believed her, not even Dr Williams. ‘I walk with fairy folk and elves and creatures from beyond the stars,’she told him.

Global Warning
‘It doesn’t matter you know, any of it,’ said Jack. ‘It’s all rubbish, global warming, climate change, holes in the ozone layer, all that stuff.’Or is it? Martha though otherwise and the result would come as a bit of a shock.

Stage of Fools
‘It is a simple tale. What begins in love and jubilation ends in hate and misery. And revenge is so sweet.’ The opening night of Peter’s Medea would be a spectacular performance if it all went to plan, but not as spectacular as Justine’s parting shot….

Click here to buy An Irrational Fear of Dogs for Kindle

Childhood dreaming

I wished I was a Persian cat
With long grey fur and amber eyes
I wished I was a greyhound dog
Fast and sleek with coat that shines
I wished I was a jungle lion
Smart and fierce and roaming wild
I could have been all three of these
If I had been a different child

But I was timid as a mouse
Who never dared to venture out
I lived my life inside the house
Fearing gentle words of doubt
It’s too late now when childhood’s past
The mouse is me, the die is cast

Believing in Fairies

In a world where for some people reality is too painful to bear and dreams are as fragile as eggshells, Mia was happy to float between the two. Her world was one of waking dreams.

‘I dream with my eyes open’, she said to the doctor, who was rapidly making notes and tutting a great deal. ‘I walk with fairy folk and elves and creatures from beyond the stars.’

‘I’m sure you do Mia, I’m sure you do.’ The doctor was putting away his notebook and closing his brown leather bag. ‘I’ll give some more sleeping tablets, but only for a few days. They are addictive you know.’
…..

Back at the surgery, Doctor Williams shook his head and spoke to his secretary in a quiet voice so as not be overheard by the usual plethora of sulky kids with buttons up their noses, pensioners who faked illness just so they could have someone to talk to and pregnant women having their blood checked for anaemia.

‘She really believes everything she says, that poor girl. I’d love to get to the bottom of what it is that is keeping her in this floating reality…something traumatic that she won’t face,’ he said.

‘Drugs I expect,’ Julia Fisher replied, ‘She’s on something. Has to be.’

‘Definitely not, I’ve examined her, talked to her, there are no track marks down her arms, I’m sure she doesn’t smoke marijuana, she’s not suicidal. No there’s something else. Something I need to get to the bottom of. Maybe I should regress her….’

‘Then she’ll tell you she was Joan of Arc or Cleopatra in a previous life or some such nonsense.’ Julia was always dismissive of anything slightly spiritual or scientifically doubtful.

‘Not that kind of regression. Not to a ‘previous life’ as you call it. Just to her childhood so we can find out what is hidden there.’

‘A couple of bodies, I expect. She probably murdered her parents and hid them in the cellar.’

‘Now who’s the fantasist?’ Dr Williams laughed.
…..
Mia’s eyes are lightly shut but she is not asleep. ‘They don’t believe in you anymore,’ she says aloud. ‘But it’s no matter. I see you. Like little stars you shine for me and only for me. You sparkle in the night sky and fall to the ground one by one in tiny gossamer droplets of light.’

‘Help us,’ I hear you say. ‘If they stop believing in us, we’ll vanish forever.’

‘I love you,’ she replies. ‘I love you as if you were my own children.’ And the world is shining around her and there are tears in her eyes.

‘I’ll help you, I promise. Trust me.’
…..

‘Everything that has ever happened in your life, Mia, is stored deep in your unconscious mind. Your conscious mind, however, may block these memories because they are too painful. This can give rise to mental illness and emotional disturbances. But I’m here to help you.

‘I am going to take you back to your early childhood.

‘Your eyes are closed and your eyelids are starting to relax. In a few moments, I will count rapidly from ten to one and with each number, your relaxation will increase. 10… 9… 8… Stored deeply in your unconscious mind are memories of other times and other places. 7… 6… 5… Soon you will be able to retrieve those memories and recount them…4… 3… 2… 1.

Then a strange thing happened. He realised that Mia was floating about two feet above the couch. She was surrounded by twinkling lights of silver and gold. They circled her body and then began to circle his head. Round and round they went. They played games like an aerial hide and seek, up and down they flew, now left, now right. They were making him dizzy.

‘Free us,’ they said. ‘Help us….believe…’

He remembered his conversation with Mia only the other day. ‘I walk with fairy folk and elves and creatures from beyond the stars,’ she had told him.

He hadn’t believed her. ‘It’s just a dream, a nightmare or even a hallucination,’ he had told her. But here they were all around him. And he was talking to them.

‘How can I help you?’ he asked them.

‘By believing in Mia,’ they replied.

‘I believe,’ he said and in an instant another believer had been converted and he knew that his life would never be the same.

Saving the roses – a sestina for the environment

If the world ends life will hang in the balance
Ended by ignorance, famine and greed,
To return to love is like climbing a mountain
Pricking ones fingers and hands on roses
In the dark, your path lit only by a lantern,
I can help you, I am music, listen.

I woke up this morning and began to listen
To the music of the birds singing in balance
With nature, the sun rising like a lantern,
So pretty, yet clouded by systems of greed,
Birds’ feathers like the petals of pale roses
Flutter down the side of the mountain.

I will climb to the top of the mountain
And stand at the peak in the stillness and listen,
I am music and I can hear the petals of the roses
Flutter down and the birds create the balance
Between the love and the hate and the greed
And in the darkness shines the lantern.

Out of the darkness shines a lantern
And the people are climbing the mountain,
Leaving behind the famine and greed
And asking for mercy, they want to listen.
They know they upset the perfect balance
I am music, I’ll play out with the roses.

Stripped to the skin and pricked by roses
They walk up the mountain lit by a lantern.
The path is narrow and it’s hard to balance
The love and the hate on the side of the mountain,
The music once played but no-one would listen
And now there is only the loss and the greed.

It’s not too late if we punish the greed
And follow the music which saves the roses,
The birds and the trees ask you to listen,
They light up the dark with their pale lantern
And reach for the skies from the top of the mountain.
I am music, I am silence, I am balance.

The balance is fine between love and greed,
From the top of the mountain I can see the roses
Still lit by the lantern and hoping you’ll listen.

Extract from The Sweet Smell of Lilies

The following is an extract from a short story called The Sweet Smell of Lilies. Phoebe is fanciful teenage with a very over-active imagination. She sees murder and intrigue wherever she goes, even in the most innocent situations. But nothing is as strange as the eventual outcome of the story. The story is written from the POV of Phoebe herself, using her voice.

But before I carry on, I had better tell you a bit about me. My name is Phoebe and I am going to be a renowned crime writer, like Agatha Christie or Dorothy L Sayers. I am working on my first novel right now.

I was born in the Cotswolds, eighteen years and eleven months ago, the only daughter of Marion and James Partridge. We were an ordinary family, just like any other with a cat, two dogs and a goldfish. Then suddenly, when I was almost five, my father vanished. I barely remember him now. He was also a spy like my uncle. One day he went on a secret trip to the city, but he never came back. No-one ever saw him again, not even my mother. He was kidnapped by the Russians. They tortured him for days on end, using thumbscrews and other instruments of medieval torture. They shone bright lights in his eyes and stuck matchsticks under his fingernails. He never talked of course. He was such a brave man….

‘Phoebe,’ my mother would say, ‘Don’t tell such stories. You know it’s not true. Your father was not a spy. He’s just another missing person now.’