Now, I could write about some of the things that are making me gnash my teeth at the moment. I could, for instance, say that there’s only a certain amount of dismissing and mansplaining that a person can do before another person decides that they would rather just not bother talking at all.

Alternatively, I could rhapsodise about the solid and timeless value of hard work and that no-matter how bright one purports to be, there is no substitute for just getting on and doing the bluddy work and not expecting everyone else to bail you out when it’s too late, you didn’t and you’re now full of regret at the latest obvious missed opportunity. But perhaps we should save that one for  another day too. *purses lips*

Instead, I’ll show you something I tried recently on my hair, which has always been dry with a tendency to frizziness, exacerbated by occasional hair colour experiments. I know, I know: the salons only use wonderful, fantastic colourants, and, hey Salonfolk, it’s not you it’s me. Or rather, it’s my hair. That’s why I’m so reluctant to colour it, because every time I do it’s not long before it’s a mass of tangled, unmanageable knotty straw. Usually my beloved Moroccanoil products keep a lid on that but I think the combination of my most recent hair colour in June and the humid then hot, dry weather has had this result already. Witness the effect of a few drops of July rain on my beautiful wedding blow dry:


A gorgeous blow dry, ruined by dancing in the rain.

A gorgeous blow dry, ruined by dancing in the rain.

(As an aside, I find many men often picture us “exotic” Indian women as slender, willowy beauties with long straight indigo-black hair, fair skin and regular features. Sadly this is is only consistently true of women who hail from North India, if at all. It is certainly not true of me, with my curly, frizzy hair and shortarse pudgy physique. Grr.)

I could moan constantly about my unfortunate genetic inheritance and yes, I do, and cover up and settle for being one of those anorak-and-polyester-skirt-sensible-shoes-no-make-up women. And if that’s totally their bag, that’s perfectly fine by me. But I have truly found that life has begun at 40 or even later, with a new-found confidence and interest and pride in my appearance. Best Foot Forward can be a liberating maxim, in many ways. Hence  the skin and hair treatments and cosmetics.

Now, I don’t often mention products, but when I do it’s because I’ve been thrilled by them. So here’s something from Lush (Yes, I KNOW!) that I tried on Sunday and has made my frazzled hair lustrous and silken like someone out of those Arabian Nights stories. This here little pot of Intriguing Irma:

IMG_1082You just massage this stuff with the look and texture of mashed banana babyfood into dry hair, leave it for twenty minutes while you play your latest moves on your multiple Words With Friends games and check Twitter and then you wash it off in the shower. And then Bob’s your Uncle. YOUR uncle, because I don’t have an Uncle Bob.

The result is the sort of hair you might fantasise about in one of those sexy secretary sketches where she lets her hair down out of its neat bun and her long, thick locks tumble down over her shoulders and strategically-unbuttoned blouse. Hm. You can tell I’m writing a novel, can’t you?

It didn’t get rid of quite ALL of my frizz in one application, but most of it is gone and the hair is soft and heavy and feels gorgeous. Combing it was much easier than usual, although I did still use a little Moroccanoil to help it along. And two days later, there was little or no frizz, even first thing in the morning! I’ve been to the gym today and washed my hair and I’m still delighted with the texture of it, so the Fluff-Eaze must have been absorbed very well. My previous, expensive efforts to fight the frizz are well documented on this blog, and having had such success with this modestly-priced product, which costs £12.25 for a 220g screw-top pot, I’m now tempted to brave the Lush pong and buy their henna to dye my hair back to its natural dark brown/black from the inevitable reddy-blondie-caramel that arrived all too soon after June’s passionate purple was put in. As I said, it’s not the hairdresser, it’s me and my awful hair, which is now much, much less awful.






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