The chronicles of hair...

I recently went through the very painful transition of cutting my hair. Some of you may not see the significance in this, but to me this experience is all too painful to bare.

Having had my locks massacred at the tender age of 15, my hair has never quite been the same. This traumatic experience left me paralysed with fear every time someone even dare suggest I have a haircut.

Alas, my life went on with me frequently hacking into my hair with the kitchen scissors whilst leaning out of my halls of residence window. 

Realising all too late that my hair was not only hideously large but also in complete disarray, I visited a hair salon. Having not had a haircut for many years, I obviously did what anyone would, I cut it all off and dyed it black.

No-one ever tells you that if you make the unwise decision to dye your hair black that you will NEVER be able to dye over it. Yes it might seem pretty obvious to some, but we don't all think with any sort of logic.

Luckily for me, I wasn't afraid of DIY dyeing and quite happily attempted to dye my black hair brown. The result, after bleaching it with peroxide TWICE in a matter of hours, was a beautiful hue of orange. So beautiful, that my mother was too embarrassed to walk with me in the streets until I dyed it a more reasonable shade of carrot.

Now ginger, having had my hair cut short and hating it, I went one further and cut it even shorter, obviously. You cannot imagine the resentment I faced when looking in the mirror every day, I loathed the summer version of myself who decided to cut it all off. It was decided, I had to grow it. This was my sole focus for the next three years. I nurtured my hair, resisting so much as a trim.

Now not only was my hair short but it was once again becoming wider than my hips. Having taken it upon myself to play hairdresser every day of my life since the age of 19, curling and back-combing my hair into oblivion, it's needless to say my hair was on the verge of disaster. 

It was pure luck that I made friends with some hairdressers and they gradually and painfully goaded me back into the salon chair. We started off slow, a small trim here, a little less back-combing there. Eventually resulting in my stopping curling my hair. It was time to realise, I will always have straight hair.

So it went on like this for a while, with my resisting the urge to comb my hair into a birds nest on my head. Gradually it recovered the years of abuse, I dyed it brown (my natural colour) and wore it straight. Of course once a hairdresser, always a hairdresser, I still insist on cutting a fringe when the mood takes.

Like all things, we come full circle. Two weeks ago I woke up feeling mad, obsessing with the idea of cutting my hair short. The hair that I have painstakingly watched grow for three years. So like any sane person, I cut it. Forgetting my past hair endeavours for a few days, I was happy. 

And just when I thought my mad hair days were over, I was getting the urge to meddle with my hair once more. Having dyed my hair brown as a process of "growing up", and agreeing with my sister-in-law when she said "there comes a time when we can no longer have crazy colours in our hair". 

I've turned my back on growing up and waved good-bye to my boring brown locks. For the third time in my life my hair has been pushed to the limits, dyeing it four times in twenty-four hours. 

I am now satisfied. I am ginger. I will always backcomb. I am 23. And I am NOT getting old.

Now for a little hair timeline....

Wingardium leviosa

If you read the title of this blog and instantly understood the true meaning of my magical uttering then you too are a Harry Potter fan just like me.

I bloomed a little late when joining this particular gravy train, or Hogwarts train if you will. I was first introduced to Harry Potter when my brother began reading The Philosophers stone and I had zero interest in reading the book myself. He was one of the many that still pronounced the name Hermione as Her-me-own until the film was released and the entire world realized they were stupid.

The second attempt at some sort of introduction came in the form of my year 7 English teacher. He adored the books and insisted reading the first out loud to us, he didn’t even require that we bought the book ourselves, nor do I recall ever having to discuss the book in any form of educational way. As for him, reading the book to us was for pure unadulterated pleasure.

I recall listening to him speaking the words but never actually caring to hear the story he was telling. It was only years later that I finally understood the true nature of what it was to be a Harry Potter fan.

Having finished college, my friends and I decided to holiday in Newquay for part of the summer. The day we left consequently fell on the day Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows was released. Three members of our party were avid fans, buying the book a minute past midnight. Resulting in them spending the first few days of our holiday utterly engrossed in the book, so much so that it was difficult getting two words out of them. If a book could distract you from endless sun, surfing and drinking then I had to read it.

I’m not one to start something midway, so I started from the beginning. Buying all seven books from various Amazon sellers. It felt like Christmas, coming home daily to find a wonderful package on the doorstep.

I read the entirety of the books in no more than two weeks, at which time I was also working full-time for the summer. I even had time to read The Deathly Hallows twice within consecutive days.

The thing I most love about the books is that J. K. Rowling grows with her characters; she grows as a writer. The first book is a little un-riveting, a short and easy read with plenty of mistakes. I’d already seen the first five films so I rushed through the books. It was only when I read the fifth book that I truly began to listen. It was the biggest book and the one in which most people dreaded reading due to the sheer size of it, I know many who chose to finish reading the series when faced with The Order of The Phoenix.

However I battled on, relishing in every little detail, falling deeper in love with the fictional world we were all so engrossed in. When it came to reading the last book, I was goner. I stayed up all night to finish it, just so that I could start reading it all over again the next day. The detail was extraordinary, J. K. Rowling had left no loose ends, she had resolved everything impeccably leaving nothing to the imagination, she had already allowed us to imagine the greatest of things already.

I felt at a loss when I had read the last book, there were to be no more. Alike many I awaited the final films, so that I could live within the magic for just a little longer. The films came and went, and we were left with the memory of the phenomena that once was; until Warner Bros announced they were opening the Harry Potter studios in the summer of 2012. I was ecstatic.

I eagerly awaited the opening, keen to be one of the first to visit. I had always seen the films on their opening night; this would be no different, that was until I saw that it cost £28. The price seemed extortionate for a tour, don’t be mistaken and let it put you off though, for it is worth every penny and more.

As a birthday treat, my brother and his wife bought me tickets, and that is where I have spent my day, in the magical world of Harry Potter.

 When watching the films you rarely consider the sheer amount of detail that goes into it, from casting Fang to designing artwork for the common room notice board. The smallest detail has the utmost attention poured into it. I would advise that every person that has ever loved Harry Potter go and visit the studios immediately.

I won’t ruin it for you, but you really do get to experience almost every aspect of the film, from costumes to props and make-up to hair pieces, everything is there. I never dreamed that I may actually get to glide down Diagon Alley or sit within a flying car but at Harry Potter studio tour, it’s all possible.

You may experience nostalgia when walking round, the music echoing the sound stages is haunting and really does emote some strong emotions. I left feeling fulfilled and just a little bit upset that I had chosen to go horse riding instead of auditioning for Harry Potter...

Almost life size model

Some of the many prosthetics of display 

The Great Hall 

The entrance to Dumbledore's office

Hogwarts model, used for most filming 

Ministry of Magic sculpture

Hagrids motobike

Where it all began... 

Diagon Alley!

Hogwarts entrance

To market to market

I mentioned in weeks passed that I planned on partaking in a boot-fair; in order to sell the amass of unwanted clothing building in my wardrobe. In all truth these items are hardly unwanted, in fact I imagine I would be one of those sellers unwilling to part with their things and end up tackling the buyers onto the floor just so I could keep that cardigan that I never had or would wear again.

Some people may call the condition of buying endless and un-needed items and storing them in the bath as hoarding, I like to however call myself a woman. I like to buy things, wear them perhaps once, or not at all in many cases and then put them in the wardrobe as something “I will wear someday".

I have trained myself into a fresh way of thinking, I now buy only those items in which I love, and I mean truly adore. My habit has luckily moved on from garments to household goods and decorations, which thankfully serve a more perpetual purpose as there is always some amount of need when buying them. 

Anyway I'm rambling. The true nature of this blog is to discuss the imminent boot-fair I planned on doing. Having re-located near to the apparently "trendy" area of Kilburn, I found the perfect place to sell my goods, just fifteen minutes from my front door.

I had settled on St Augustine's boot fair, held every Saturday from eight until two. Having never attended myself I relied on reviews to make my decision of where to set up stall. Once described as "one of London's most famous car boots" and claiming to have celebrity shoppers such as Agyness Deyn, I was hopeful for a good turnout.

The boot-fair was planned for today; the weather was to be hot, always perfect for wandering Londoner's in search of a bargain. Having no car, we had decided to transport the goods via cab, opposed to my boyfriends plan to walk the entire rail of clothing from West Hampstead to Kilburn High Road. If you’ve ever visited Kilburn, you would know that particular idea to be unwise.

Luckily for me my boyfriend shares my love of sleep, and loathe of early Saturday morning starts. We decided not to do the boot-fair as we excused ourselves as simply being unprepared for the task at hand. Instead we settled on visiting the boot fair at a Saturday friendly time and scoping out the crowds for when we sell the following weekend. I thank god that I'm a lazy oath.

I would suggest this boot fair has earned its acclaim by pure fluke and what was truly intended was the phrase "the most Infamous car boot". St Augustine's was the most stressful playground that I've ever been in, and I was raised in Hastings.

I felt like I was attending a cattle market; and I was the cow, being shoved in all manner of directions and constantly feeling that my purse could be stolen at any moment. The only way to protect yourself is by buggy or shopping trolley, both of which were used as weapons to trip and barge people out of the way so that you could buy one of the thousands of TV controls for sale.

My true dread not only arose from fear of being electrocuted by a cattle prod but I feared the pitch "owners". They sit huddled around their goods, which consequently are thrown onto a rug and trampled on. They glare at anyone who so much as looks at their items. Being too scared to approach any stall myself, I was content to simply listen in. The pitch owners leave no room for bargaining, you either pay the £15 for the second hand sequin shoes or you can fuck off. Both parties are equally unwilling to budge with most looking aghast at having to pay more than £2 for anything even if it is a genuine Gucci bag.

And speaking of genuine; the website strictly states that no counterfeit items be sold, a rule that every single stall seems to flaunt, everyone seems to be boasting a pair of brand new ray bans accompanying there Prada purse and Louboutin’s for sale.

One of the many "genuine Gucci" stalls

Timeout had promised me a haven of treasures and “quirky finds”, yet I hardly think a bulldog ring and oversized ear-rings warrants such a title.

The whole atmosphere felt unfriendly and hostile, unlike so many other boot fairs that I've attended where you leave feeling mostly calm and often content with the wooden letter holder you've just purchased for 50p. The only thing I would be satisfied to purchase at St Augustine's is a pram; so that I too can use it as a weapon against others and also as a means to escape to a less petrifying playground.

Aside from all my slander, the one benefit to St Augustine’s is that with the 50p entry after 11am, you also gain free entry to a boot fair down the road, an equally crap boot fair but it’s a boot fair all the same, and it’s free.

My free entry stamp

All aboard strikes again

Afternoon all, this isn't a "proper" blog post today. I simply wish to share with you something that has captured my heart whilst out on a little thrift trip today. I love it so much that it is already mounted on my wall, ahead of all the other pictures sadly waiting to be hung since my move two weeks ago. Of course when I say mounted, please don't start imagining me with a measuring tape and hammer or anything of the professional kind. I found a nail already hammered randomly into one of my walls and instantly hung my new love.

In my last blog, I raved about a charity shop I found in West Hampstead. Well the little haven has delivered once again. I bought this amazing line drawing with the caption "Time For Reflection" for just £5. 

I'm uncertain as to why I have fallen for it, as it is no spectacular piece. Yet I love the simplicity of the design and the skill clearly used in creating the different shades in the print using straight and curved lines against the stark white background. It is a typical piece of  Line Art, emphasizing form and outline over colour and texture. 

The scene itself depicts the caption perfectly in my mind, with what I can only judge as a young wife reflecting on her life whilst her old aristocratic husband snoozes over his morning paper. One can only imagine what she must be thinking, I'll leave it to you to make your own judgements....

Welcome to my bubble

Firstly, apologies for my lack of blogging in recent weeks. Alike so many Londoners, I feel it necessary to move every few years, and in this particular situation, once a year.

Having lived in the delightful Wood Green and surrounding area of Turnpike Lane for four years, I finally decided to leave my comfortable little burrow and seek out a new and more peaceful dwelling. 

My feet landed in West Hampstead, and what a glorious little bubble it is to live in. I feel like I've stepped out of London and now live in a fantastic little village, filled with quaint stores and friendly people.

Gone are the days of endless police sirens, instead I hear the twitter of birds, the buzz of bees and the occasionally sound of the over-ground thundering by.

After living in Turnpike Lane for some time, I had learnt to watch my back, always remaining aware of those around me. I'm no longer concerned that the man crossing the street is going to rob me, instead he wishes to smile and wish you a nice day.

I no longer feel the London call to walk quickly, avoiding bumping into a steam of others who wish to walk directly into you if you do not get out of their way immediately is no longer a concern. There is simply no-one to collide with, those who you do meet will shuffle out of the way and continue with their casual pace. A casual pace that I too find myself adopting just days after moving here. I am content with simply wandering and no longer feel the pressure of the crowds to reach my destination quickly and efficiently. 

For those of you that have never visited West Hampstead, I suggest you do so now. Aside from it's great location, West Hampstead has a lot to offer. Just today I went out on a little meander into some of the shops. 

If like me, you love thrift shopping then the main high-street is the place to visit, there are endless charity shops to explore.

My favourite of them all was run by two loud Italian gentlemen. The store was jam-packed with goodies. It was a treasure trove spilling with vintage items, all for under £10. Unlike many charity shops in London, this shop was oozing with character, with stuff thrown everywhere and covering every surface. The best thing about the place; was it's vintage section, which was by no means small. Each vintage item was priced at £5 and under! And all were genuine vintage, minus the usual ludicrous price tag attached. 

That's all from West Hampstead today. I plan on selling heaps of clothing, new and vintage next weekend so I will let you know how that escapade goes in the following weeks.

I'll leave you with some pictures of the gems I picked up today, and the view from my bubble...

Vintage tea-dress £5

This dress has wonderful straps, the photo does not justify them

A timeless white blouse

Adore a good collar

Window bliss

I feel fancy...

The fellow Kirsty Broadmore, and consequently my sister-in-law, has invited me on a little business venture.

It is aptly named English Home-made Fancies. The premise of this lovely idea is the creation of traditionally made individual pieces ranging from beautiful hand-made totes to lovingly made jar labels.

As part of her franchise, Kirsty has decided to hold thoughtfully planned out workshops so that others may learn how to make her home-made fancies.

Yesterday I was lucky enough to partake and assist in her first cake-pop workshop, in which we taught a group of 8 girls the skills to make beautiful and delicious cake-pops.

The workshop was a great success and once the girls decided to pay attention we were left with a wonderful result. The girls lovingly designed and created their first ever cake-pops....

We are hoping to hold many more of these cake-making work-shops over the summer. We won't just be teaching the skills of cake-pop making, but the classes with showcase a variety of home-made skills. Such as cupcake classes, embroidery and dress making. 

Please take a look at the following links and help us to promote our little venture.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/English-Homemade-Fancies-Childrens-Parties/344693508944331

http://www.facebook.com/EnglishHomemadeFancies

http://www.etsy.com/shop/HomeMadeFancies?ref=si_shop

The classes will be led by Kirsty, a clarinet teacher and home-made connoisseur. Look out for in the near future at Camden Market where she plans to showcase some of her designs. What out for future updates.

Fifty times popular

I for one, can admit to contributing in the sales of over twenty million copies of Fifty Shades of Grey, worldwide.


Available in both copy and e-book, Fifty shades is the fastest selling book in the UK, all within just three months of release.


Those who have not succumbed to the temptation of purchasing said book are continually asking those of us who have devoured all three parts in less than two weeks; "what's with all the hype?". And having read and enjoyed the series I find it impossible to answer this question.


I can think of only one reason why we have endured our work-mates, family and friends constantly discussing Christian Grey, and that is, we love reading about sex.


The British are surprisingly coy when it comes to openly discussing ones sexual endeavours. We prefer to keep any discussion, if we wander into one, very p.c. and we decide to change the subject somewhat promptly.


Whereas E L James has taken the sordid sexual fantasies of a seemingly normal "innocent" and a obsessive control freak, and thrown them in our faces where they cannot be ignored. And the truth of the matter is, we do not wish to ignore them.


Although we do not wish to discuss our own sex lives, we love to hear about others. And when as explicit and exciting as Anna and Christians, who are we to blame.


It however begs the question, are we all so deprived of sexual excitement and imagination that we can only witness it from a distance in the form of an unrealistic fantasy?


For some, you may believe I'm making a sweeping generalisation of why we have swooned at this book. However when I consider whether the book should receive much merit, I think not.


When I begin to think about it the book is not particularly well written. Those of you gasping at my proclamation can take a minute to listen to my reasoning.


Firstly. present are only weak plot-lines in all of the three books. We barely touch on any excitement outside of the bedroom. And when we think something exciting might finally happen (Anna or Christian getting shot by the ex-sub for example) the anticipation is diluted and nothing ever happens.


Secondly, the continual repetition of certain traits and sayings. This was the one thing I really hated about all three of the books. Under the assumption that those reading the second or third book have also read the first, we do not need to be reminded that Anna bites her lip at every turn! We get it, she bites her lip, Christian loves it.


We also do not need to hear for the thousandth time that Anna like the way Christians jeans hang in "that" way. And if I ever hear the supposed endearing term "Mr Grey/Mrs Grey" I might shoot myself.


For those of you still claiming you read the book because it was interesting and the characters had redeeming qualities. Try imagining the book without it's explicitness, imagine that when things were about to heat up all that was given was a simple .... and we woke up the next morning sort of thing. Not such a gripping book huh? you still want to spend every night with Christian Grey now? I think not.


All complaints aside, I cannot deny that I loved the book, And the underlying reason is as discussed, I love reading about sex. I'm British afterall....