Brand New

You're only 19, for God sakes! You don't need a boyfriend!

I simply love Kate Jackson. I actually have for sometime now. It started about three years ago, when I was first introduced to The Long Blondes. There was something about her voice, that at first I didn't quite like, but as I listened more, it grew on me. It's a mixture of what she said and how she said it - so unashamedly, so unapologetic, very cool! Her style was also a revelation to me at the time. Sophisticated but quirky at the same time. For awhile, I wanted to be Kate Jackson. This is not a phase of which I am ashamed. Apparently, after the band broke up, Kate was to embark on a solo career, unfortunately I've heard nothing of her, yet! I'm crossing my fingers. As far as I'm concerned the world can always do with more female, lead singers, with attitude and style to boot. The song I've posted is one of my favourites! Hope you enjoy!

This blog needs pictures!!!

Me standing. In my room. Wearing dresses.

Close Shave

So, I've decided that I'm going to shave all my hair off.

Just reading over that sentence makes me feel a little afraid. No, I lie, a lot afraid. I feel slightly silly, because, afterall, it's just hair, right? It will grow back. I've had bad haircuts before and I'm here to tell the tale.But still, there's this nagging feeling, that if put into words would reveal the unhealthy back and forth occurring in my head.

"What if I look utterly ridiculous?"

"Well, then just wear a hat."

"But it's Summer, too hot for hats!"

"Nonsense!"

"But, I don't like hats. I look utterly ridiculous in them!"

                                                                          "SILENCE"

At this point I take on a devil may care attitude, which is rather a waste of time as this fools no one, least of all me. But, it does make me wonder, why something, so seemingly insignificant, could take up so much room in my head space. What's the point? People do it all the time. This reasoning, however, is not enough to quell my fears. I look at the pictures on my wall, most of them of women. Most of those women with long hair. Some loose. Some tied up. Some neat and proper. Some dishevelled. And all, in some way or other, representing femininity. It's not that I'm afraid of loosing my femininity. I think the problem is, that if I do cut my hair, I will have to figure out new ways of expressing mine, without the aid of the women on my wall.

Ultimately, I know, that I'm making rather a big deal out of nothing. I will cut my hair. I'll get used to it, so will other people. And, I'll think back to this blog and wonder what all the fuss was about!

A dress - A magical thing Part I

When I was little I didn’t much like dresses. Christmas and Easter would inevitably come round and with it the pink tulle monstrosity that I had to wear for the entire day. Even though I was only about six or seven, when  being stylish wasn’t high on my priority list, I thought the thing was hideous -- because it was absolutely hideous.  It would usually be white, baby pink or powder blue. Sometimes it would be embellished with a striped, polka dot or flower print, occasionally a mixture of each. It had puffy sleeves, a satin bow at the back and a huge skirt which jutted out at the waist. It was one of those creations where neither the comfort nor pride of the wearer was taken into consideration by the creator - an adult clearly suffering from a deranged sense of what cute was.

Worst of all the tulle made me itch and there being copious amounts of tulle meant there would be itching throughout the day. Add  to this the fact that I wasn’t even  allowed to be original in my misery because my mother had decided to buy my older sister the exact same outfit. Perhaps she was having a joke at our expense, but she probably thought this all very cute and adorable, and this is why I swallowed the bitter pill with nothing more than a plaintive smile. It was always a great relief to remove the dress, although this was not the end of my torment. It managed to torture me throughout the year -- poofy dresses are malicious like that.

As I mentioned, I was only six or seven, I didn’t have many clothes and therefore did not need much cupboard space, but the bane of my seven year old existence demanded more space than my poor little wardrobe could offer. In order to fit this thing into the cupboard, my other clothes, the ones I actually liked wearing, had to be compressed  into an unfairly small amount of space. As if this was not enough, when I had finally completed the process of oppressing my other clothes, the impertinent dress made it difficult to close the cupboard. This became a daily chore and a constant reminder of one of the itchiest days of my life. My poor little heart sank with this reminder and would sink even lower as the dress seemed to say, “ It’s almost Christmas time again”.