Spotlight, how do you do this to me?

Does Spotlight fill you too with delusions of competence and domestic sewn-from-scratch perfection? I'm here to tell you only masochists make their own napkins.

Only morons see some BEAUTIFUL scarlet fabric with white scrolls and birds and curlicues and think "WOW, that would make stunning Christmas napkins. I could totally make them."
Hemming (a.k.a sewing in straight lines, in this instance) is very easy. It's more the cutting in straight lines which is a hassle. And the ironing. Oh yes, the ironing. The pressing of 100% cotton homespun into creases OTHER than the ones formed by the fabric bolt. Maybe it's just the tedium killing me.

Oh yes, killing.
I've hemmed and pressed and folded one.
Of twelve.

Admittedly, the other eleven are cut and stacked beside the machine, and the iron is now hot, so I've come further down the tunnel than I'm protesting.  I've hemmed the tablecloth (just call me Martha Stewart)

I have a distinct feeling the boy will be on loose-thread-trimming and pressing duty when he comes home. If he comes home. Meanwhile, on with the Tripod marathon and the cheery festive hemming. Frick.

Ode to the haircutter.

In reply to a paragon of English grooming, I feel the need to point out an often-overlooked but crucial difference lurking in the heart of our society. Hairdressers vs. haircutters, people.

You might think it's a meaningless semantic difference, but let me assure you it ain't so.
Hair cutters are a whole different breed to their effeminate cousins, the hairdressers.

Let us all gather to bemoan the hairstyle that fleetingly appeared in the oddly lit salon mirror, coaxed forth with copious blowdrying, straightening and litres of product applied in baffling combination.

Let us bewail the glamor hair that will never, ever appear again, despite your best efforts at home. I blame celebrity culture.

Glossy mags provoke us all to say "OOh, I want the pob!" "Victoria Beckham, you have much to answer for. Not quite as much as Jennifer Aniston, (Friends circa 1995 - who didn't have the haircut? Come on, admit it) but a whole generation of women embraced helmet hair all over again despite the natural desires of their very own keratin.

Enter the haircutter. Be warned, you have to have the strength to utter much harder words than "I want THIS one!" while banging on the celeb of your choice (ooh, poor choice of words).

"Fix it."
And they will. There may not be obvious veins of color, but they aren't above highlights and multi-tonal effects. There may not be the latest, most dramatic Rihanna razored fringe or Ruby Rose blunt, but there will be hair which makes you look like a million dollars. That's right, you. Park your butt in the chair and let the professionals do their job, and your hair will look like the right thing every day. Or maybe I just have a genius, brilliant, worth-his-weight in gold haircutter.

Touchdown!

Wow. Still haven't slept since Thursday night.

The short story: Suzuki professional development, a Sarah Blasko concert at The Forum theatre with friends, Copocabana, Night Cat and some other place I can't remember the name of. Then a dropoff in Chaddy and back to the airport to collect hubs from his American sojourn pt.1.

Somewhere in there I decided attempting sleep was futile. However, thank you Adam for your kind loan of a horizontal surface upon which to lay my weary head and "gorgeous haircut". I hope you find a girl who wears red sinner lipstick with conviction. You deserve one who dances much better than me ;)

I have learnt that it's quite difficult to convince people you are in fact married when wearing neither engagement ring or wedding band. In fact, this absence can give rise to gentle and discreet discussion among friends, as they tactfully allude to my naked fingers and hubs' absenteeism.

When convincing a stranger, wedding photos are a useful proof of assertion unless... "That's not you! Look at the hair on that girl!" (presently a short, dark bob with a heavy blunt fringe). Sigh.
Yes, females do tend to change their hairstyle occasionally. It's this strange belief we subscribe to which causes us to seek a new color, shape, style, image, identity. Cheaper than buying a new wardrobe, a lot cheaper than plastic surgery. Many of us will even save the psychiatrist fee that week.

Our new haircut lets us pretend we're not committed to our jobs, lifestyles, partners, family - our life. Instead we can pretend a little- to be a high maintenance ice queen or a calm, composed woman of the world. And is it really pretend or a very complex double bluff? Good luck working it out.

How the hell did this post become a muse on appearance and identity?