Bank holiday Monday and I blame the hangover for this lack of productivity. Yesterday was another one of those amazingly fun days with my honey – both went for a run in the morning and before it was even midday, we found ourselves randomly in Camden. We were going to get a hairdryer, a jacket and dry shampoo. We came back with a pair of jeans, a picture for the livingroom and dry shampoo. One out of three.
Susi, Hair Guru Extraordinaire, recommended it to me. I have typical Scandinavian hair – very fine hairs but tonnes of them. The result, given it’s very long, is that unless I douse my head with sea salt spray or mousse or similar, it just hangs there. Unlike hair of the coarser kind, it’s too soft and silky to hold itself up. Dry shampoo, Susi reckons, is the answer.
Firstly, I’m quite OCD about showering and I just don’t feel ‘clean’ if I haven’t washed my hair. Secondly, I had no clue which dry schampoo to pick. Thirdly, the salon brands weren’t available at Superdrug’s and I was too tired – and wanted another glass of wine (the afternoon turned into a bit of a pub crawl) – to head to Boots, so I came back with Superdrug’s own, which was a disaster in itself.
End result: I resemble the Lion King and my hair feels all coarse and DIRTY. It felt fresher and looked better before I sprayed this devil concoction all over it. I’m willing to give the idea another shot though, so will get a better brand and try again, as the kind I got is clearly designed for people with dust for hair – on long, thick hair this did NOT work. Challenged B to run his fingers through my hair and his face said it all. Yuk.
So yes, messy hair and a severe hangover is my lot this rainy bank holiday. The Notting Hill Carnival is in full swing, but not once during my 19 years in the UK have I bothered – festivals and crowds just aren’t my bag, baby. And in the rain? I think not. I don’t even think I’d be able to endure it with Sauvignon Blanc. …of which I have poured myself a spritzer now to combat my sore head, desperately wanting to believe that it’ll put me right again. I reckon all I will achieve is get drunk again by 3pm.
This is my problem. Well, not a problem, more of a disposition. I have no brakes. OK, when it comes to alcohol, the Full Throttle Approach is indeed a bit of a problem, as needless to say it means I can get outrageously hammered. Poor B. He seems to take it in his stride though, even though my sleepwalking gets a lot worse when I’m on the juice – the last incident I actually walked out naked, because of course, my nightly escapades tend to start with me getting naked if I’m not naked already. Having said that, on one occasion when I was already naked and was off on a nightly walkabout, I got a scarf out. Don’t ask me why.
Bet B didn’t realise what he signed up for, thinking he was going to snooze blissfully next to his loving girlfriend, and then he ends up with the Nordic Night Nutter. Fine work by all standards!
I’m struggling, it has to be said. I’m not good with hangovers at all. I don’t tend to get overly awful headaches, but what I do get is this terrible lightheadedness and also get lumbered with depression like moodiness. I start feeling anxious about everything and nothing, start fretting over things I needn’t worry about, just generally end up feeling really glum. Today’s not been too bad though, possibly because we entertained our tired selves this morning by watching a couple of Louis Theroux documentaries.
Amazing what crazy folk there are in the world! The first one we watched was about Nazis, the second about this creepy hypnotist in the US who sold desperate people $10,000 courses in how to become a millionaire. Good fun to watch and interesting, but half of it was spent peering out from behind a pillow.
The Nazis, predictably, were cringe worthy and scary at the same time, and a particularly frightening part was about two 11-yearold girls who sang and produced songs about Aryan resistance, all the while doing Nazi salutes and professing to be 88’s. (H being the 8th letter of the alphabet, and 88 standing for Heil Hitler). Their mother watched proudly.
Then the charlatan hypnotist manipulating vulnerable people to part with what’s probably their life savings, knowing full well he was just screwing them out of money they could ill afford and giving them nothing in return. The mind boggles as to how, but clearly these people do exist. Two very different segments of society, but what struck me was that both sucked in people who were desperate, lost, disillusioned and sold them some kind of promise of a better life and offering a false sense of belonging.