I’m having a gorgeous time by the beach at the moment. But a couple of weeks ago it was a disaster
which came in threes.
Reflecting on the blows I wasn’t sure why I wasn’t more
stressed. Was it the parallel joy of
reconnecting with loved ones in Australia?
Was I in a particularly sanguine mood?
Or perhaps too shocked to react?
I’ve decided it was simply that I couldn’t get the milk
back in the bottle. The damage was
done. Beyond my control. So the
electrical circuits in my brain disengaged and watched from afar – waiting for
the future to slowly reveal itself... rather than fighting or resisting the
reality of the situation. And it was this
passivity, this instant resignation, which I found to be far less stressful
than trying to affect change.
In some respects this can’t be a permanent state of
affairs. Apart from the fact that I’m probably
the least passive person you could ever meet, there are practicalities which will
eventually demand attention and action. But in the short term, it was an
interesting experience in letting stuff wash over you. And I’m inclined to think that lessons I’ve
learnt from living in a big tough city like London, have been unexpectedly beneficial.
The three disasters:
1) My
house has been trashed. There are holes
in the walls. Broken doors. Incredibly stained carpet. A pesky cat who is busily pulling out threads
on the now wilting carpet. So much dirt, dust and clutter that who knows how
many creepy-crawlies have found a home.
A collapsed retaining wall in the rear courtyard (which the Body
Corporate were supposed to fix over two years ago). And everything is breaking at once such that
I have to quickly replace things like the oven, garage door motor, floor tiles
etc. This was quite a shock when only
two and a half years ago the house was in perfect condition. And the tenants smiled and told me they’d
cleaned the place in anticipation of my inspection! Hmm, none so queer as folk...
2) I
went to a new hairdresser to get a tiny bit of colour on the roots of my hair; just
to tide me over until I get back to London.
And after decades of insisting on a natural look and only a subtle use
of highlights... the new brand she used turned a T shape stripe across my head
bright orange. Seriously, Bozo the Clown
orange – not at all complimentary to my former golden-copper tones. Yes, aaaggghhh! My hair is my thing. So what could I do except let her try to fix
it. She added another colour, then my
hair went purple. Yes, mahogany
purple. The poor girl was as stunned as
I was. She called the Hairdresser’s
Crisis Helpline (apparently there is such a thing) and they told her to give me
a bleach shampoo. Really? On my very natural and never bleached hair? Aaaggghhh again. Then my scalp and forehead went bright red
and started to sting. She added more
colour, something to take the brightness out, and a few highlights to aid the blend. And six hours later I left the salon with
patchy red skin on my face and still looking very much like a relative of
Bozo or a raging Drag Queen. I’ve washed my hair daily, my
scalp has peeled off in disgusting clumps, and only in the last few days has it
faded enough for me to not want to have a bag on my head. But what could I do. She didn’t mean it. She didn’t charge me. And she really tried to help...
3) I
received a letter from the publisher of my children’s books telling me with
pride that the GirlzRock and BoyzRule series have been released as
CDs. An exciting development, after
several years, to have these new readers going out anew to school libraries. I open the accompanying package with
enthusiasm and there is my name on the cover – spelt incorrectly! I am immortalized as Julie Mullens right when
I’m out there discussing publication of a long awaited new book as Julie
Mullins. Doh!
I was beginning to think I’d been jinxed, given these
three incidents occurred on three consecutive days. However as I sit on the plane on my way to
Auckland, I can see the funny side. And
I wonder how many hours it will take my precious friend Hayley to ask: “what
the hell happened to your hair Mullins?”
She didn’t exactly say that, as we were distracted by her
new baby and the toddler competing for attention. But her honest friendship could be relied
upon when, after about thirty hours, I blurted out the Major Hairdresser Malfunction
story and she sighed “oh thank goodness you don’t think it looks good... I was
getting worried”.
So I did what you can do: I opened a bottle of wine and
tried to forget about it. There’s still
time to sort out my house and tenants... she says optimistically... my lovely
hairdresser, Toni, will rescue my locks the day I get off the plane again in
London... and I guess children aged 5 to 7 years don’t really care about the
names of authors on their books... so my ego will just have to get over it.
Meanwhile I’m at the beach in Kiama on the south coast of
NSW, the sun is shining, the water is gloriously warm, and I’m having very valuable
time with my dear Mum. You’d be mad to
worry about much else really.
Ah, passive. Not usually me. But nice to try it on.
Recommendation:
