L.B.D

I have found myself in a very dark depressing place, a reminder of time’s past, younger carefree years, mistakes mishap’s and mood swings.

I am at the bottom of my wardrobe. Sorting out the good, the bad and frankly the ridiculously ugly.

I would recommend to anyone else that has a history of hording clothes to visit a councillor before attempting this task. It is simply turning into a roller coaster of emotional memories.

Underneath the rubble of shocking top’s and scary jeans I spy my old best friend.
L.B.D (little black dress) My gosh she is little. So little I consider whether I am rooting through the wrong wardrobe. With mother eye’s I begin to wonder how I ever had the nerve to wear it in my own bedroom let alone out on the wild street’s of croydon.
I move over to my stereo and fling on an old school cd and wallow in my fickle fashion past.

I consider for a moment if with the few pound’s lost over recent weeks that I could manage to squeeze my less than youthful leg’s into her.
Stripping down to my mumsy undies I have to laugh. L.B.D would never have been paired with this set back in the day. Here goes.

I manage to fill the dress, or should I say overfill. Somehow I think that no matter how many pound’s I lose there is little chance of this girlfriend ever accompanying me out again any time soon. Standing opposite my mirror I am shocked at the reflection that bounces back. I am transformed into my old garage girl self - sweeping my hair up into a ‘croydon facelift’ I finish the look by adding my then trademark pout. Lord help me I look a state. I wince at what people must have thought of the girl looking back at me. Then I realise what is missing. Back then I had more confidence than I knew what to do with. Obviously the fact that all my peer group dressed in a similar way may too have played a large part in that. Note to self: watch out for daughter darling’s choice of girl friends.

I resolve to remove L.B.D and place her on the ‘keep it’ pile.

If nothing else it can be a reminder that my fashion sense can only get better..

Fringe

I was advised by the man to get a fringe. “Live dangerously” he suggested as I walked out to get my haircut. So, Dangerous I was - allowing my over trendy teenage hairdresser to cut in a big fat dirty doorstop fringe.

To begin with fringe and I got along well, there were compliments from friends and family at how good we looked. All was rosy. For approximately two weeks.

I had forgotten to consider the effect’s hair growth has on a big fat doorstop fringe. Had I known that I would be quickly resembling cousin it from the addams family it is possible I would have reconsidered. Little had I known how dangerous my new haircut would become.

It started off skimming my eye’s, and although very annoying, just a reminder that I had better get to a hairdresser pronto.

One week later and not an appointment in sight I begin to pin back fringe to reveal my rather unattractive spotty forehead. Nice. With no time left (let alone money) for a cut, I vow to arrange it next week.

By week three there is considerably less positive comments coming regarding my old mop. Probably as that is exactly what my head looks like.

Enough is enough. I take matter into my own hand’s and head to the kitchen for some scissors. I will give it the chop myself.

With only meat scissors to be found I start, I mean how blimming hard can it be?

Slowly I begin cutting more and more off to make it look equal…

After five minutes I have a new fringe. Approximately an inch long.

I am humbled by my new found haircutting talent. I attempt to style it and begin to feel sick. Fringe will not lay down. Instead I now have a line of spiked up hair, resisting any attempt to curl down. Twenty minutes later I give up, hoping no one will notice my mistake??

Heading out to meet buddy’s for lunch I note that their expression of surprise is not necessarily a good one. I try to brush off the comments with insistence that my new ‘do’ is a trendy new look that will soon be sort after by all. I eventually make my move to leave without convincing anyone.

I guess I will have to pin it back to save myself more embarrassment. On the up side at least the spot’s have gone.

Note to self. Never cut own hair with steak scissors.