I have had to take myself in hand since hitting 40. And "hit" it I did. There was none of the graceful, nonchalant "turning", which was how I entered my thirties. No, reaching the eve of my next decade, I took a run up, closed my eyes and hit it with a level of force comparable to that of a teenage wizard hurtling towards the entrance to platform 9 3/4 in the hope of a better, more magical world on the other side. I have been disappointed. There has been a transformation, but it has been very much for the worse. There are bits of me which, admittedly, could never have been termed "areas of outstanding beauty" but which, on this side of 40, are now definitely more in the category of "brown-field site in need of improvement".
So it is that I must make my way to the hairdresser's, at intervals of every increasing frequency, to have my unattractive badger-like stripes attended to. Fortunately for me, our local hairdresser's is a place of warmth, friendliness and laughter, which often verges on the hysterical, so that I find I actually look forward to going there.
Especially after the way this day has started. Small Boy is jabbering at me in one ear about his latest obsession, namely his desire to incubate eggs and hatch chickens. Daughter is jabbering in the other ear about how best to apply concealer and whether it is normal to get spots in places on the anatomy other than the face. The dog is concerned that she is being left out of things and is vying for attention by thrusting her wet nose into my groin. The Cats are taking advantage of the mayhem to sneak off and find an unmade bed to roll around in and leave muddy paw prints. I am attempting to drink a cup of coffee and make sure everyone eats something before hitting the school run. Husband has long since left the building.
"So if I could just get Granny and Grandpa to give me the Remainder Twenty-Five Pounds, I could buy the incubator entirely myself and then we could hatch our own chickens!"
I take a deep breath and try to intervene. Small Boy waves his hands at me to prevent me from speaking and continues with a rush: "And I know what you're going to say, Mum. You're going to tell me you don't want any cockerels. Well, I've organised that. William says he will kill any cockerels that hatch and we can just keep the hens."
Oh well, that's all right then. As long as William is prepared to have blood on his hands . . .
"Mu-um! Listen to me!" Daughter is tapping me on the arm repeatedly. It is beginning to hurt. "Can you see where I've put concealer? Can you?" She thrusts her face into mine while the dog shoves her nose into my armpit.
"Time to go!" I cry, leaping from my seat and sending the dog flying.
"And Dad is such an idiot." Small Boy is still talking. "He says I could keep geckos in the incubator! But I obviously can't, as an incubator turns things round and round, so the gecko would have to keep doing somersaults and that would be Cruelty to Animals."
Unlike murdering cockerels, I think. But I don't say it aloud.
Daughter and I spend the school run discussing the finer points of criminal law and whether it is morally correct to defend someone you know to be guilty. Small Boy chips in with impossible-to-answer questions about Life, the Universe and Everything. I begin to wish I had studied something a bit more useful than Modern and Mediaeval Languages at university, and turn up the volume on Chris Evans as he starts to say something incredibly interesting about dinosaurs having feathers. We get stuck in horrendous traffic and narrowly miss being squashed into scrap metal by a particularly vindictive bus driver. I break my vow to stop swearing while driving and get roundly rebuked by both children.
Finally I get rid of everyone, stick on some decent radio and speed off to the haven that is The Courtyard Hair and Beauty.
"Hello, Anna! Would you like a coffee?" asks Lovely Emma.
"I wish we had cake," says Gorgeous Tanya.
"Or biscuits!" salivates Very Spanish Pili.
"Or a Krispy Kreme," coos Hilarious Harriet. "Did you know there's a new shop opening in town?"
"Oh no. I have to be in the right mood to eat a doughnut," Emma shakes her head in disapproval, handing me a steaming mug of coffee.
I smile, sit back and allow myself to be pampered and cosseted for the next hour and a half. Yes, that is how long it takes to repair the damage that 41 years on this planet and a houseful of children and animals have wrought.
But would I have it any other way? Well, I could do without the badger stripes and the wrinkles, but otherwise, probably not.
So it is that I must make my way to the hairdresser's, at intervals of every increasing frequency, to have my unattractive badger-like stripes attended to. Fortunately for me, our local hairdresser's is a place of warmth, friendliness and laughter, which often verges on the hysterical, so that I find I actually look forward to going there.
Especially after the way this day has started. Small Boy is jabbering at me in one ear about his latest obsession, namely his desire to incubate eggs and hatch chickens. Daughter is jabbering in the other ear about how best to apply concealer and whether it is normal to get spots in places on the anatomy other than the face. The dog is concerned that she is being left out of things and is vying for attention by thrusting her wet nose into my groin. The Cats are taking advantage of the mayhem to sneak off and find an unmade bed to roll around in and leave muddy paw prints. I am attempting to drink a cup of coffee and make sure everyone eats something before hitting the school run. Husband has long since left the building.
"So if I could just get Granny and Grandpa to give me the Remainder Twenty-Five Pounds, I could buy the incubator entirely myself and then we could hatch our own chickens!"
I take a deep breath and try to intervene. Small Boy waves his hands at me to prevent me from speaking and continues with a rush: "And I know what you're going to say, Mum. You're going to tell me you don't want any cockerels. Well, I've organised that. William says he will kill any cockerels that hatch and we can just keep the hens."
Oh well, that's all right then. As long as William is prepared to have blood on his hands . . .
"Mu-um! Listen to me!" Daughter is tapping me on the arm repeatedly. It is beginning to hurt. "Can you see where I've put concealer? Can you?" She thrusts her face into mine while the dog shoves her nose into my armpit.
"Time to go!" I cry, leaping from my seat and sending the dog flying.
"And Dad is such an idiot." Small Boy is still talking. "He says I could keep geckos in the incubator! But I obviously can't, as an incubator turns things round and round, so the gecko would have to keep doing somersaults and that would be Cruelty to Animals."
Unlike murdering cockerels, I think. But I don't say it aloud.
Daughter and I spend the school run discussing the finer points of criminal law and whether it is morally correct to defend someone you know to be guilty. Small Boy chips in with impossible-to-answer questions about Life, the Universe and Everything. I begin to wish I had studied something a bit more useful than Modern and Mediaeval Languages at university, and turn up the volume on Chris Evans as he starts to say something incredibly interesting about dinosaurs having feathers. We get stuck in horrendous traffic and narrowly miss being squashed into scrap metal by a particularly vindictive bus driver. I break my vow to stop swearing while driving and get roundly rebuked by both children.
Finally I get rid of everyone, stick on some decent radio and speed off to the haven that is The Courtyard Hair and Beauty.
"Hello, Anna! Would you like a coffee?" asks Lovely Emma.
"I wish we had cake," says Gorgeous Tanya.
"Or biscuits!" salivates Very Spanish Pili.
"Or a Krispy Kreme," coos Hilarious Harriet. "Did you know there's a new shop opening in town?"
"Oh no. I have to be in the right mood to eat a doughnut," Emma shakes her head in disapproval, handing me a steaming mug of coffee.
I smile, sit back and allow myself to be pampered and cosseted for the next hour and a half. Yes, that is how long it takes to repair the damage that 41 years on this planet and a houseful of children and animals have wrought.
But would I have it any other way? Well, I could do without the badger stripes and the wrinkles, but otherwise, probably not.
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