Thursday, 29 March 2012

...Rambles Random

So this weeks ramble has been inspired by my trip to the black hair shop in Thornton Heath. I haven't been in one for years but the giant tub of coconut oil I had been using had whittled itself down to the dredgs that no one wants to use. You know the dirty end bits that have somehow contracted an unholy amount of hair and dust and you have to run you finger around the rim to scrape out the last few hairy morsels. However I digress.

What shocked me about this shop wasn't how spankingly clean it was (there was a man with a feather duster ala Kim and Aggie, making sure all the tubs/bottles/jars were as clean and shiny as they can be) - clearly I have been visting the wrong type of hair shops... No what shocked me was the amount of fake hair they had. Everywhere. Obviously in it's packets, not lounging around the shop, turning itself into strange tumbleweeds and roaming the streets of South London.

Now I don't use fake hair. I'm lucky enough to have hair that grows ridiculously fast, thanks to my Indian mother but it doesn't stop me from wondering where they hell they get all that hair from? Is it necessary? It wasn't your bog standard fake hair that my older sisters used to use. You know the synthetic hair, the one you had to burn the ends of and it somehow glued itself together. The new generation of hair is human hair. Not 10%, not 50% but 100% human hair.

From what I remember of my big sis doing her hair it took at least 2 and a half packets of hair to complete her whole hair do. So if 60 women came into the shop buying 3 packets of real human hair each thats what, 180 packets of human hair every day being sold. (I'm not that great at maths don't worry, this here laptop has a calculator). I'm not judging people that use fake hair, it's their prerogative. What I don't understand is where it all comes from! And this my friends is a dangerous topic for my already overactive imagination.

As soon as I saw all the hair all I could think of was hundreds of "real hair farms". Where thousands of people are hooked up to machines pumping chemicals into their bodies to make their hair grow super fast, super glossy and most of all tangle free. Creepy...

I know it's not true and it is my over active imagination and as the teacher I work with informed me, it's all probably Eastern European or Indian hair anyway so not to worry. But that in itself is a bleak, bleak concept.

Anyway, I feel like I have rambled (get it, rambled?) on about my obsession with real human hair for far too long and may have made a few of you tune out and wonder why you're reading about one girls obsession with "real hair farms" (the longer you think about it the more real and dystopian it gets by the minute). So I'll leave you with my final point and no it's not about hair (enough already!)

My social experiment has ended. I hear a collective sigh and no it is all that bad and yes most of the men on these websites are fucking creepy and no the 2nd date didn't end well. Sods law really. However I have met someone the "natural" way. You know the way mother nature intended. If you can call it that and so far things are looking good. Ironically he has taught me to like myself again and this my friends is a hard thing to do, especially as the mean reds (no I'm not talking periods, I'm talking "Breakfast at Tiffanys" and if you've seen it you'll know what I mean and if you haven't then bloody well watch it) keep popping their heads around my metaphorical living room door every 2 hours to question me on what I think is happening is actually really happening or if it's a made up image of an already twisted mind. Thankfully he hasn't sussed out how crazy I am. I may leak it within a couple of weeks and see the reaction. Hopefully he won't run.

Heres hoping.

Tuesday, 27 March 2012

...Nameless a Lipogram.


Come softly,
Treading in my sleep.
Looking into the window,
Follow me.

Nights like this one are grand,
Revel in it.
See the wonder of it.

Enjoy the moments we steal together,
Breathe me in.

Charge the air with the feel of it,
Taste it,
Let it linger awhile. 

Saturday, 17 March 2012

...Random Ramblings

This weeks ramblings are prompted by my walk to work. Yes I am lucky enough to walk to work. It takes 20 mins there and 20 mins back. The walk down is a lot easier then the walk back. Why? I hear you cry, because it's all up hill on the way back. Bloody sucks. At least my thighs are getting a jolly good work out.

Anyway, on my way to work I see the general commers and goers, the school kids, the office workers and the ones who are coming back from the night before (how I miss those days!). What gives me endless entertainment are the ones who are running late and are "running". I call it "running" because it is hilarious. They are blatantly late and obviously panicking but yet they decide to do some sort of strange half run half slide along the pavement at an attractive yet completely pointless pace and then, dear friends, after a few yards of this, I don't know shall we call it a "slun" (better amalgamations of the word are welcome) they stop!! As if that little slun got them any closer to catching the train! It's beautifully pointless and it makes my morning. I don't know about you but if I'm running late I bloody well run! Fuck looking attractive I need to catch my train! Right well enough of the apostrophes, I'll go back to my usual mellow state in a minute.

So back to my walk to work. Once I reach the station and pass all the non slunners. I have to enter the underpass. Yes it is as sinister and as deadly as every other underpass in London, nay Britain. Especially Bristol. Or so I've heard. Ok it's not that sinister, but it does have a pretty sinister smell to it everyday and everyday it smells different. Now I have quite a keen sense of smell and my poor little nostrils cannot take this violation everyday. I could walk round but then that adds on another 10 mins to my lovely 20 minute jaunt. Where am I going with this? I don't know, but you started reading this and I know your hoping for an end point or at least an exit cluase coming up soon. Alas you're not in luck, I will just keep going and like the title suggests this is a ramble and unlike the musings there probably won't be much deep thought involved. Or willl there? (Pause for dramatic effect, think 80's drama.)

What I don't like about my walk to work are the mothers. Not all the mothers. Some are quite attractive and friendly and want to be around there kids. But then there are the others, the ones who make my skin prickle, the ones I want to hit with a bat and tell them to LISTEN! Your children are trying to communicate with you, open up to them, embraced their random conversation, enjoy it now while it lasts. One mother I passed yesterday was unfortunately part of the latter. Her young boy was trying to explain something he obviously found fascinating and she turned round to him and told him to shut up. To be quiet. She didn't want to hear what he had to say. So he stopped talking and my heart broke. That poor child. Yeah ok she may be at her wits end and the little blighter may not stop talking. But he's YOUR child, you CHOSE to have him so bloody well listen to him. There will come a time where he won't want to talk to you because of incidents like this and God forbid he's in actually trouble and needs someone to turn to coz mate it won't be you! And people wonder why there are hoardes of unruly children roaming the streets, screaming out for someone to listen to them. Unable to express themselves vocally they instead turn to destruction. I'm hoping that the future holds a lot more for the younger ones coming up behind us. Lets make it a little brighter for them.

For now I will retreat into the shell that is my room and continue to write about the underpass and try to forget the troubled little souls of today. Well at least for a couple of hours.

Heres hoping.

Friday, 9 March 2012

...Museful Mindings

So chaps sometime has past since I last spouted my mind splurges all over this here blog and I think it's safe to say not much more development has happened. Or has it? (This is where I pause for dramatic effect.)

This time my musings have been prompted by a song. A very good song by a very good artist. Emeli Sande. (Sorry Ems haven't got one of those accent things on my laptop so the normal "e" will just have to suffice.) Her song "Daddy" reminds me of all the shitty men I've had the unfortunate pleasure of knowing. Made me think about love all over again. But I won't start, otherwise we'd be here for years. 

On a happier note my social exprementation is going well. Apart from the fact I seem to attract the strange older man, who is in fact old enough to be my dad, winking at me. Yes thats right, winking. It's an absurd idea that said dating site feels is exactly the right way to go about "breaking the ice". It doesn't break the ice and in fact is rather creepy, especially if they "wink" at you everyday. I do feel like I've got enough "material" to write a whole series of books - but that was the point wasn't it? I may add a few characters into the new story I'm writing. Well I say writing, it's knocking around up here somewhere, it just won't let me write it down - yet.

I am getting itchy feet though. Not from my social experimentation, that would be a weird side effect wouldn't it? Doubt it would deter the weirdos though... No I think it's the change of season. I need a little bit of excitement, need to get the cobwebs out and start the old engine again. Go on holiday, in fact just go away, somewhere - anywhere!! My trip to Cambodia is on the horizon, so for now the thought of that will keep me going. In the meantime I may just go get another tattoo.

Oh and the date went very well.

For now chaps adios, hopefully the sun will come out and my mood will perk up.

Heres hoping.