There comes a time in every bloggers life when it comes to his or hers self imposed ‘blog deadline’ and they hit ‘the wall’. The wall being that mystical force that makes your entire body reject the idea of writing a blog post.
Today I have hit that wall.
It comes from a result of having 4 hours of sleep, my period (yes, I’m sharing that with you, get over it), and the task of packing my shit up for the T in the Park festival looming over me – no I haven’t done it yet, get off my back already! It also stems from a week that has been so ripe with blog post material that my brain has simply collapsed under the weight of it all. It’s not a writer’s block but a writer’s avalanche.
First there’s the festival thing, which I’m pretty sure has some blog potential, even now in its pre-festival stage. All over the blog world there’s people taking pictures of their pre-planned festival outfits. Their festival make-up ideas. Their festival hair ideas – shit like that.
But unless you want to see a picture of my wellington boots, I don’t think my festival preparation is really blog worthy.
Then of course there’s been my exam results. But unless you want to see pictures of a full bottle of vodka become an empty bottle – and my tear stained keyboard, I don’t think you’ll be interested.
Plus I don’t fancy being sued for slander by my university, by calling the person who marked my exam something offensive – like ‘YOU’RE A MASSIVE WANKER’ or ‘GO CRAWL BACK INTO YOUR MOTHER’S CUNT YOU TWAT!’
So that leaves only one topic left, my hair. I like this topic a lot better than the others because it allows me to indulge in the age old blog tradition of replacing words with pictures. Why make witty commentary when I can show you, step by step, through the powers of instagram, how I went blonde and shit myself, before quickly forking out £75 to go back to the original colour.
First was stripping my hair. This was a lot less fun than the term ‘stripping’ initially promised. The basic premise is that I sit with some smelly lotion on my head for an hour, while wrapped in cling film. In many way, this could be a scene from a very PG rated bondage film.
Also, you should brace yourself for a couple more awkward faces from me. I find that if I distort my face enough, it tricks you into thinking I’m photogenic – though probably not.
Here’s my hair after the stripping – my hair is naked, it’s hair pornography. Stop looking you pervert.
What’s with the bush baby sized eyes? If any of you have sat with bleach on your hair, you’ll know that the experience and be somewhat… uncomfortable. Sadly, this is the part of the story where things start to go a bit wrong. Wrong in the sense the people doing my hair underestimated how much bleach was needed, so instead of all of my hair being bleach white, about 3/4 of the job was done.
After bleaching we slapped on some blonde dye picked up from a chemist, and this was the final result. Now I have to be honest here, this photo is deceptive. The colour looks okay in this shot, but let me assure you that it was not okay. It was yellow. A ginger yellow, like something out of the simpsons.
Not only that, this yellow gingery hair did not suit my skin tone and made me look… well, ill. And my eyebrows… let’s just say, next to the blonde, it looked lie someone had drawn them one with a black marker pen. All that was missing was a twirly mustache.
24 hours after my hair was transformed, I ran into every hairdressers I could find and begged them to fix the mess. Luckily I found one who could, and who agreed to do it for me the very next day. So, £75 later, my hair has been restored back to the colour I started off with.
So what have I learned from this little hair related disaster? One, that hairdressers charge a lot of fucking money. And two, don’t flatter yourself into thinking you can get anything other than a Lisa Simpson hair colour without a professionals help. And lastly, I’m clearly not very good at this whole ‘letting the pictures speak for you and sacking off words for pretty pictures’ bullshit that other bloggers are so clearly good at. I’ve rambled on like a twat more than usual.
Maybe my examiners had a point about my communication skills.