Ode to Belinda
Ahhh, England, my England. Now, you all know I’m a total, fully-converted Irelandaholic, but there’s not much that can beat a trip to your favouritest hairdresser ever to put you in a good mood, wherever you are in the world. And this is precisely how I came to be battering down the door at my much-missed and extremely wonderful ex-hairdresser’s salon this morning. Oh lovely Belinda. Having finally found the perfect girly, the one who has the same type of hair as me, laughs at the same things (heck, we even ask after each other’s kids by name) and who knows exactly what you mean when you say vague things like ‘I’d like to be blonder, but not ‘trailer trash’ blonde, you know?’, the one who makes you strut out of the salon feeling like a million dollars, flicking your glossy locks…and what do I do? Move a few hundred miles away. Duh.
Still, I’m a glass half full girl, and today my glass overfloweth as I’m currently in possession of that aforementioned glossy blondeness, which should see me through those dark, Belinda-less days before I can get back here and book in again. I wonder if she’s considered Ireland as an emigration possibility? Maybe I should buy her a brochure… Oh, and even better, I got to visit the fab shop across the road and squeeze myself into a new pair of Citizens of Humanity jeans, which are outrageously, bottom flattering and disgustingly covetable. I had to have them. They called to me. There you go, then, I’m all groomed and shopped out to boot. Happy days…
