Monday, 28 September 2015

A Moving Experience - PART TWO

With every new home, comes a new set of “firsts”.

First dinner party (no dining room yet available…), first party (all booked – hope the dining room is sorted by then!), first birthday, first argument…or five.

Today’s first was the first dying of the hair. Not a very exciting first, granted, but with all of the mirrors lying around waiting to be fixed to their appropriate walls, the old lady who kept looking back at me was getting too comfortable in our house.

Anyone else who can’t afford/refuses to spend £80+ every 6 weeks on stemming the unrelenting tide of grey that is sweeping across my head will feel my pain.

Apart from my friend Kate, who can quickly and successfully bleach her hair blonde whilst on holiday, without even looking in a mirror, it’s an event that most of us “DIY Dyers” have to work ourselves up to.

In my case, I’ve been psyching myself up for the best part of a month – there was just another glass of wine to drink, episode of Sons of Anarchy to watch or box to unpack. It really doesn’t take that long; I am just a dreadful procrastinator.  

The lazy feminist in me even considered NOT doing it at all and seeing how bad it really is up there.

When today’s mirror image was that of Mrs Pepperpot however, I decided to grab the dye bottle with the too-small-gloves (SERIOUSLY – how fucking tiny are people’s hands?!) and 
just get the hell on with it.

First issue that came to light, was that of space.  Whilst our old bathroom was smaller, the sink was in between the bath and the loo, giving plenty of elbow room and lots of wipe-clean surfaces.  

There admittedly was the incident where I had missed a big blob of dye that landed on the green toilet seat and looked like a skid mark for the next 3 weeks, but Cillit Bang dissolved enough of the seat to make that merely a memory.

Our new sink however, is nestled snugly into a cranny – not a nook, a nook is a lovely place with possibly a soft throw, maybe some books and a scatter cushion or two.  A cranny is much smaller, much colder and less forgiving. 

This cranny would be OK, if I was a small child or only had a Mohican, but by the end of the application, I had bruised funny bones and it looked like a murder had taken place. A small, pinky kind of murder, but a splatter pattern that Rizzoli and Isles would love to investigate nevertheless…

Luckily, the shower 20 minutes later removed the "blood" from my hair, the washing machine removed it from the towel and the Cillit Bang came into it's own again on the the main. 

Mrs Pepperpot firmly back in her, well, Pepperpot, I can get on with my day to day activities.  This now definitely includes searching for tiles to facilitate the easier cleaning of the murder scene for next time she appears in the mirror.

I am also now looking forward another first - the first lottery win in this house, so I can jog off to the hairdressers and let them worry about stains whilst I drink champagne.

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