The Analogy That Keeps on Giving

I am waiting for growth. Enjoying it short while it lasts. Surely I can let the metaphor go for a while.

But no! What's happened now? I hear you ask. Is the style growing out, maybe I got a trim or a perm (wow that would not work at all)? I actually think that the shape is doing OK. I may or may not tidy it up when I get back to London but it seems to have lasted alright.

I have simply made an insightful observation based upon pre-existing features.

Before I got the chop and went for the "cut the crap and start again approach" to my hair. I was trying to bring it back to ginge (which, in case you didn't know due to repeated brainwashing of jealous people, is a wonderful colour akin to gold and totally cool) the artificial and "fast-tracked" way. That is through dye. The latest time I tried this, when my roots were already at least an inch long, they used an "organic permanent mix" instead of the usual semi as it would be better for the condition. Organic you say? Bring it on I say. BUT, you know what this means? The bit of root I had that ended up being the bulk of the short drastic 'starting again' haircut was actually dyed.

Which meant that I turned out to be more ginger than I actually am naturally.

Only fractionally, maybe a shade more orange, but it does notice in the right light (now my true true roots are coming through) and the overall effect is subtly but significantly brighter.

And this is where it gets clever see. I have been thinking about how maybe I have been being a bit "too" Christian of late. Like, it started out funny and it still is a lot of the time but I don't want to become someone that is all about generic identity and forgetting the fearfully and wonderfully made part.

Looking for your new identity in Christ can be hard, particularly when there are things in your old identity that are tied in with negative conotations. The temptation is to say these things I knew about me are wrong and I need to "find myself" again but you know what, Jesus has already found me. I once was lost but he left those 99 sheep to look for me and is now rejoicing over me with singing. Along with all the angels. I just need to take out the bits of debris that I picked up in the wilderness.

For example: I talk a lot. I mean a lot. There are good things in this. Some of my friends have really encouraged me with statements such as "I like it 'cause it means I don't have to" and it sure comes in handy with some people some of the time and certain types of in-your-face evangelism. But this verbosity has been a bit of point of tension for me, particularly recently since, delightful character trait though it is, it becomes hard to pretend that being "too much" is always other people's problem. I mean, you seldom hear people say that Russell Brand just isn't understood properly and should be put in charge of more things, do you?! Unless you hear it from me that is... "They just can't handle me" was not something that Paul said about mixing with both the Jews and Gentiles etc. So from this came the temptation to believe, based upon the times that I miss the mark, that I am actually just totally wrong in myself. I sure didn't want to live in denial of things I need to change.

The idea of refinement vs rejection of these qualities got a bit muddled up till I wasn't really sure where the old me and the new me changed over. I know I do get it wrong and have a tendency to sometimes speak compulsively and without due care and attention but I didn't want to throw the baby out with the bathwater and assassinating my whole unique character seemed a bit drastic. Confusing.

But the hair thing helps a lot.

As I see it, I am a hell of a lot closer to natural than platinum blonde was. In all the process of trying to force myself into God's identity for me I just got a bit carried away and over did it. But it is relatively small, it will not last forever and it isn't a bad bad match. In time the ends will become a smaller ratio of dyed to real and then, little by little, get trimmed away. (Mum, could you book me that appointment actually please!)

People that know me of late think I'm a bit off the wall; people that knew me before Switzerland think I have calmed down a lot; people that watched it happen... I don't really know what they think...! But somewhere in the middle of all this is a happy balance and I just need to peace out and let God make it happen. In time. As I wait patiently and don't try and force it 'cause actually that don't work. I am alright. I am not perfect. I am in the best possible hands.

When was in GVA and we did the gig (a prime time for God showing me insecurities I forgot I had) we dressed up in *quite* silly outfits. Both my other band members (which is why I am putting their pic up too! Share the responsibility...) wanted orange hair and I am game for most things. So we did this:

Which now screams to me to be the perfect symbol of what I am not supposed to do. Put on make up and fake it to make the issues go away. I ain't conforming for anyone, it isn't about being as orange as I can (fun though it sometimes is!) but about being as orange as I am supposed to be. The blonde in strawberry blonde is there for a reason.

Best of both. Like hovis only not bread.

Bah Humbug

I am such a boring old fart. I've had it with Christmas parties. Everyone pretending it is going to be amazing when really it is just hyped up normal time but with people more uncomfortable, stressed, with silly expectations and sore feet. Don't get me wrong, all 4 of the ones I've been to so far have been enjoyable (went to a Ceilidh tonight!)... but it's hard work to keep merry for that long and I usually want to be at home curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea.

I really am old before my time. But it is difficult. I go to uni with people who are all at least 2 years younger than me and I already feel older than I am most of the time (I keep accidentally lying about my age). I hate being a student. I hate the stereotype and the funny hours and the lack of respect and the way people assume you like to stay up late and get wasted. I don't. I like to stay up late and write my blog and if I do drink alcohol I almost always want to fall asleep afterwards.

I still love learning. I have that to be thankful for. Today I had an exam worth 25% of my French unit and, while there are loads of things that weren't amazing and the listening was chronic, I was a bit prepared. And all because I did work! Which sounds pathetic and I don't want to self curse but I do find work very very hard to concentrate on. But today, in the space of about 5.5 hours I did I'd say at least 2.5 worth. Mixed up with chilling and eating and showering and playing the piano and all other good stuff. OK it sounds ridiculous but for me that was a miracle and a sign, a HUGE sign, that God is actually working in my life.

My second presentation last week was another one. The first I did before visiting La Suisse and I was grateful I managed to do anything (I had been so scared it wouldn't work out and I would lose all faith in God). The second one I genuinely believed that He would be there and He was. I remember saying to myself that this was not going to be fun but it was going to happen... and it did! And it went quite OK too - got a few laughs and that's what philosophy of maths is about afterall... I actually feel more faithful. I think.

What am I even talking about? There are two points me thinks. I am amazed and delighted that my work is starting to turn a corner. I am a boring Scrooge today that has lost her Christmas cheer and feels in limbo.

But I must remember what dear Jo said to me tonight. It was about my hair. She has wonderful long locks that I want badly but she said that sometimes she just wants to be short and choppy and crazy. That I need to get it out on my system now so that when I have it long I won't pine for the funky times. Transferring that to the analogy and fit it together with some of the other disconnected thoughts I've been having recently and I suppose one could say I need to live young, free and single while it lasts. Enjoy the journey, enjoy the crazy funky cool mystery that is not really knowing what is going on and be fresh while I still am (given that I am not actually physically that old comparatively and definitely not spiritually). I don't really know how much longer the hair will be short anyway. Could be weeks, could be years. Better make the most of it! Spike it up a bit and don't force the parting before it is really there...

I am just hoping I can do these things from the comfort of my own living room.

P.S. My blogging is off form at the moment. Sorry. Don't give up, I've got some good 'uns up my sleeve... Laters.

Crazy Little Thing Called Love

I just had a lovely girly night out. Day in fact. I spent the afternoon at the Christmas market in Bath with a friend from Geneva who now lives in South UK (which is great!) and then came back for a chocolate party with "my ladies" and other friends. SO great. It was buy nothing day but I decided that legalism loses to relationship any time and so went shopping. Consumerism is my pet hate but it totally doesn't win over love :o)

Then I went out with this wonderful chick named Whitney. She is from Toronto!! I love having Canadian friends, I am so used to them now it would suck if I didn't know any. We were going out to party with her friend for his bday but we had one of those moments where, like, it was totally, just, impossibly rubbish. You know? Got in a taxi across Bris (wearing heels and also on rapist alert) and so that cost like £8 to find out that they were about to head back across town to go to a club that, I kid you not, we got into the taxi in front of.

Now, I might fool you as a clubbing girl but to be honest I am too lazy. I like to dance but I don't like to be out tired when there is a journey ahead of me and I could have been in bed already. It's quite a sad confession. I had gotten all excited but then when it came down to it I was not that cool. My feet were hurting, I didn't know anybody and we had just wasted money to be in this uncomfortable place. I nearly panicked. I lie, I had a full minute and a half where I wanted to cry over the obvious mistake. Why didn't I assert against this? Then, in my place of prayer and repentance (possible unnecessary use of word there) God made things OK. I decided we weren't going to go - I have to sing at church in the morning anyway and there was no way that the way to correct a mistake is to keep persevering at it! But we were already on Gloucester Road so we made the most of it: went for a drink together and then picked up chips (from the best chippy in Bristol) on the way home! And lo, God made something good out of it... Thank you :-)

So, what's all this about love in the title? Well, the thing is that when girls get together, I can't lie, we talk about boys. We don't ONLY talk about boys but it does have a tendency to come up. If you have one, if you want one, if you don't have one, if you don't want one...! It doesn't stop being interesting. All day it had been somehow or other on the agenda and so I come home thinking about how I feel about them. Which is mixed.

As I have shared before, I have had a bit of a tendency to be in a dependent place with men. Seeing them as an easy fix for the love that we are all programmed to desire but should be finding in God. This would be an all too simple way to describe my relationship problems. Now I don't think I am worse that other people but today I want to address the common theme of conversation and share some thoughts (albeit it in a convoluted manner), which are quite the opposite of previous assertions. I don't just struggle with too much want of relationships... oh no, in keeping with the popular theme of "complicated" too often it is all about the not wanting them enough...

We are talking about fear of commitment. Or maybe not commitment but affection. Or a mixture of all kinds of scary tings. I wrote a poem t'other day that says it a lot better so I will now copy that in:

So many people are afraid of love
Afraid to feel love
Afraid to be loved
Afraid to not feel love
Afraid to not be loved
Why are we afraid?
Fear: There to protect us
A response to something more powerful than us
We fear God because he is Awesome
God is love
Is that why we fear love?

The theory: That when we fear God we need not fear anything else
Though there are many things more powerful than me there are none more powerful than He
But that does not make me think that when I fear it is always right and good
I often fear when I should not
‘Tis not my vulnerability but independency that stops me being worry free

Love
So beautiful yet so fierce
There is every chance it will destroy one heart… two… more?
We have a reaction that tells us fight or flight in the face of danger
So tell me, is that why we run and just ignore?
A threat
Keep it far away and not live to regret
A broken heart just cannot be worth the risk of it

Love
Descended from God
Corrupted for sure but in essence Oh so pure
This fear must be a lie
Born out of brokenness and all set up to make us miss what God has in store
A damaged heart is always going to be a risk when we are gambling with love less perfect than His
But remember who is in charge
The only one to fear, the reason you are here, the restorer of the broken heart
Mine will not be destroyed ‘cause God is on guard

My point? I am pretentious. More seriously, that both these extremes are negative. I have been all too down on relationships in the past I confess (eg) but at the same time I realise that they are a great example of God's love for us (read these lyrics and tell me they aren't divinely inspired) when used correctly. There is no way that God wants us to avoid dependency in relationships, romantic or otherwise, this is just another lot of deception to discover.

What is the application to life? I don't know! My hair's not long enough anyway... It's just gossip over red wine and chocolate fondue. I need to go to bed now... x

I wish I wasn’t a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

OK I’m not. I don’t have flowers in my hair and, technically, am not really a punk rocker either.

But I sure as hell look like one.

Today, ladies and gents, is the next installment in my most major, nay famous, analogy. My hair cuts. (See here for the full hairstory.)

I have gone and gotten all controversial on 1 Corinthian 11’s ass. Which I will in due course (or not, I am aware I make empty promises when it comes to blogs and apologise. Please Matthew 18 me) be expounding on but today in not the day for biblical debates (I think that sounds more like a Tuesday thing doesn’t it?).

I no longer have face length hair. It doesn’t even cover my ears. In fact, some may argue that my whole attempt to have long locks has been somewhat marred by my decision to cut it all off to not more than 2 inches in any place.

‘Citing though, in’t it?

I have been this way since Monday. The title might suggest that I am not best please with the idea. “Getting tired of it already are you Kat(i)e?” I hear you cry. “That’s what happens when you make a whimsical decision on a bored impulse.” Should have stuck to the waiting slowly and repeatedly recolouring to bring myself into some kind of semblance of truth till I had fully grown through, maybe?

But the thing is, it was getting a bit much. Constant redying was a drain on the resources if nothing else and the effect did not really last very long ever and wasn’t always as good a match each time. It stood me in good stead for a time but the fact remains that some things are too damaged to repair and you do just need to cut off and start again.

And this does indeed fit in well with where I am at right now. Check out Ezekiel 39 (particularly vs. 12-16) and you will see my life story. As long as you can replace Israel with Kat(i)e; Gog with [insert terrors from the world here]; skeletons with assortment of left over memories, insecurities, traits, resentments, attachments etc etc and tweak a few other key phrases like bury, search party and land. The essence is there though and I am indeed 7 months on from doing some pretty big battles (in the spiritual sense) and have been, on my return, doing some major cleansing (a mixture of literal and symbolic) and burying (of people, possessions and thought patterns – metaphorically that is). The to-the-day “coincidences” have been uncanny and I have, during the week at my folks, been doing some more sorting out of actual stuff. I am cutting the crap and sometimes you just have to be drastic.

And that is what I did hairlistically speaking too. I chopped away at the ashen (as in a shade of blonde and post fire!) remains and salvaged the roots, where the true colour is at. Underneath it all I had enough new growth to make a proper style of it. Just.

And that just is what I don’t like so much. It is cool enough and faking it was hard work, but really I do want more. I want to have a bob again and be looking forward expectantly to it hitting my shoulder blades. And beyond…

But this all takes time. Patience. Waiting. At least I am back to "how I was intended". The remnants of the bleach attack are, aside from a few tiny wisps at the front, all but lost. The colour? Fabulously "ginge" ☺ Being at the start of what I know will be a long process is pretty daunting whilst not particularly pretty, but it is real. I'm getting established and am on my way.

Which also fits in with what I'm getting up to. Yesterday I was all organised, checking out about studying, organising support, paying bills, ringing the gas man, seeing the carpenter, sending off insurance papers. Today a few more errands and dealing with "household affairs". All the grown up stuff! Revolution is indeed in the air.

A collection of vaguely comedic things (that will only work if you know the people in question) and a fair amount of tangentialism

We have a friend who is "half Spanish, half American". So, while Beautiful Brian is a nice name it does not reflect his heritage nearly as well a Randy José. Rechristenment done.

The other day one of my competitors was talking about his leather thong. I asked him if it had studs in it. He replied "You could say that" with the classic eyebrow-raise/head nod. 'F you know what I mean... Shocking!

Randy José called me a fucker on the 24th June. My mission in Geneva is complete. People still don't believe me but it is true. I seem to have this affect on people, SO many of them are swearing more with my influence. Hurrah! I mean this too, I am an advocator of a good cuss when it is necessary and think too many people shy away from it. Language is a tool people.

My mum was just as excited as me when I told her about the hair and said that for her it really was a proper sign (maybe this is where I get the silly symbolism streak from) of things being different. I said that I assumed other things, i.e. Baptism, were more so and she said "well yes, but now it's real!" WTF! (Language is a tool people).

I wrote 6 songs this week. I tend to do that more when I am feeling mellow rather than upbeat so I think if I were to have an album it would be called "Music To Almost Slit Your Wrists To But Then Find That There Is A Small Amount of Hope". We went to see Paul Simon at Montreux a few weeks ago and the 'warm up' (if you can call it that in Switzerland where the crowd never gets more than tepid) was a lady singer/songwriter brandishing a guitar, which is always an inspiration. I know it sounds silly but sometimes when I don't get round to writing music I worry that someone else will write the songs that I'm supposed to! Like when you don't fulfill your call so God gives the job to someone else. I really am that paranoid. The thing is, there are only so many chord combos... and words... OK, I am doing the maths and statistically speaking that is unlikely.

Speaking of which, what about going back to maths... ? Well I am excited, unprepared, a little too not knowledgeable and have lots of things to do when I do return which won't facilitate becoming sufficiently so. But it will be great and though I talk a lot about the sadness of leaving here I have to acknowledge the excitement of going home. I have a kitchen to decorate, friends to reunite with, cars to drive, crazy dogs to play with, a family to drive insane, churches to shop for, futures to plan... There is a lot of cool stuff ahead and I have never been as secure in my life plans and knowing where they will take me. Even if I don't actually know anything much at all - the ideas change on a very daily basis but always, I find, building on each other... but to who knows where?!

On the whole call thing, it actually makes me really worried that every time I mess up I am missing out. I think that I put quite a lot of pressure on myself like that and then retaliate by being even less inline with God. Smart hey? Facilitating/stemming from this I have had a bit of a tough week; life and God have been there but I have on several occasions been disconnected. Yet in all that I now feel like, overall, He was in control. I think. There has been a risk of me getting too legalistic with 'giving my day to God' and making sure that He would be able to do what He wanted as long as I said and did exactly the right things at every moment and being incredibly guilty when I didn't. [Talk about not following my own advice - maybe I am who this post was for.] We can't always be fully immersed in what feels like quality time (I will no doubt realise this more when I get back to a proper life where I cannot pick and choose my level of busyness) and I think this is what I am learning and that I need to be able to be content in God in that. Keeping at it even when I am not in the honeymoon period.

And the anology for this lesson? I went swimming with Zoe on Friday and when I came out (after some pretty hardcore sunbathing as well) I found my hair was not as red. I nearly cried, mostly 'cause of what that said about me as a person and that I had not even show Robyn, but I was over reacting *slightly* as overall the impression is still very SB. It just reminded me that, while the colour was a moment of encouragement, I do need to protect it and I will still have to go through some major upkeep on a regular basis. A question of perseverance to see the long term goals. After all, I got the faith; I'm trying to be good and seeking to gain knowledge; in some, though granted not all at all, areas I am showing self-control and so perseverance is the next logical step (well, logic if you are going by the process as outlined here). Soo, this post would be not so much funny as tangential.

But I have found something that I can beat Darryl on. MY blog is more holy than his: I have more links to the bible... So there.

The Big Fat Analogy

This post has been a long time coming. I made this analogy to myself back in May and since then I have been looking for the opportune moment to share. Now is that moment.

I am really quite serious when I say that for me my hair represents my own personal growth. I like to think this is a sign of my creativity rather than an appearance obsession. The way I see it is this: I am currently growing my hair long whilst at the same time trying to return to my natural strawberry blonde (it is a real colour; subset of ginge I don’t deny it but valid nonetheless). The journey that will ultimately bring me to that point represents the time and efforts I spend learning and changing and becoming more “As God intended me to be”. Granted, as with even the best analogies, it will break down; namely when I reach the desired goal and I find I myself will not yet be perfect. Also, if I ever want to get a perm or high lights please, don’t think I am changing myself or letting the sinful nature back in!

The thing is, it is hard to go from platinum to a red-based hue. I ravaged my fibres so much that they can barely hold pigment at all and, as the hair dresser said, peu par peu I will have to go back and get more colour added; then wait a month or so as it readjusts; then try again and so on and so forth. I would gradually get a little darker, but she was pretty doubtful that I would reach a good semblance of ‘me’ again. The real route to my goal is to wait and let my roots grow through so I can shed completely the tattered ends of the past. That is not to say that I cannot gradually recondition and indeed recolour the strands. Just that it would take time and patience and PERSEVERANCE and that ultimately the true true end result is a long long way off.

And that my friend is where I am at too. This is my Jesus summer school and the strive for a richer colour is there at many levels.

Now we are going to see how this correlates from the beginning of my time here. Believe me, it can be done... Last September I arrived and I had a hair goal. To grow it long and keep redoing the roots so I would end up with long straight platinum locks. Not unlike a porn star(!). Well, that plan went slowly down the pan as I had a communication issue with one hairdresser (sadly I must say that was in London so the language was not an excuse) and ended up with VERY short blonde hair. It was ok, I did the Debbie Harry thing for a while, but the point is I was on my way off the original objective. This happened in February, around the time I was really challenged about moving on from the past and wholeheartedly embracing the new things I was discovering. The next stages really just snuck in and before I knew it was trying to get ‘low lights’! Where that change of direction come from I do not know (possibly something to do with a prayer or two from me and one or two others!) but it happened and the desire did not cease. First time Zoe donned the plastic gloves of a home dye kit but that did not really take hold and so on my birthday I went and got it done professionally.

I had a lovely birthday btw (that is another story in the draft box) but I was finding with my hair that, while I liked the new colour, there was not enough of it. Hair or colour. That was in April as I was enjoying my deepening friendships with wholesome people (that truly is what I called ‘The Christians’ when I met them and my main reason for doing so in the first place) and also questioning everything a lot. By that point I pretty much believed it all I just had not reconciled it with a commitment; and that was where things were scary (see my Baptism post for more info).

And so the metaphor goes on. It was just before the B that I first went to the hairdressers. The grey incident nonetheless. For me, that was the decision to live 'this life'. To put the colour back as it were. And it did start. OK, I was grey but I had begun the process. I made the choice and that alone makes all the difference. Not what I (or God) had in mind long term but the ground work was done and there was something to build upon. And build He has (see everything pretty much that has happened since!)...

And since then I have been back twice for more work. Once just before my travels and if you were to look at the Dublin photos you may have noticed (those of you that knew what colour my hair was before) that I was looking kinda ginge. Well, I was feeling it too. A combo of the professional visit and the new water and sunlight and all that jazz; Robyn noticed and she liked it, I think the same could be said for my growth inside as well. The trip was a defo era of change for me, as I may have mentioned once or twice. I also really did start to notice the hair then, I am not making this up!

What about the second time I went back to the hairdressers? I hear you ask. Well, that was today. And I really am so excited to post this now because as I was talking in the morning with a dear friend and really reconciling some of the things from these past few weeks - which have been seriously challenging at times but ALWAYS astoundingly God controlled - I was reminded that life really has changed amazingly and I have too. And then I went to the hairdressers (quite a 'chance' opportunity)… and I came out a Ginger! Talk about confirmation!!

I am not saying that I am 'there'. The colour is a bit darker than natural (implying I may need to calm down a little, or am I pushing this one too far?) and there is a vague layer at the back in a chocolate brown (totally not chavvy I swear) and a pale streak on the top that I feel has been left to remind me of the things I am yet to give up (note how much less of them there are, but they are still foe show). Plus, it is not natural it is a dye job and there are still many many years till the full length of my locks will be totally back to normal.

For now though, I a pretty content with where it leaves me. Basically, waiting 5-10 years for a total shoulder length regrowth (and by then I trust I will have a better idea of where I am headed and we can let the analogy rest in peace) is the long term extension of the analogy but I feel pretty secure. I don't doubt a top up will be needed at some point, but isn't it always?

As I write this sunbathing, between dips in my rooftop pool (it is a hard life), I can also add that it is long enough to tie up out of the water. Only just mind and that is the next step. More growth of the same thing and seeing it come through even realer with each passing cm. That is a pretty neat place to be in as I leave a month today and can look ahead feeling reassured that I am doing OK.

‘Cause I really do think that God is talking to me through a trip to the coiffeurs and that really this is all testimony to His creativity. Especially when I had been worrying about how right I was getting things, then He affirms me with a hair cut! If you had been there (bear in mind too that it is a training school) maybe you’d get the little miracle that just happened. They too were surprised it worked... but then, I am sure there will be a few more surprised faces back home too…

The faith paid off though and the rewards are being seriously reaped. You can’t make this shit up!

Another thing about French Class

I don't know what I have said about my French teacher but she is called Bee and she is Great! We met a few weeks after I came to Geneva and she offered really early on to give me lessons for free: one of the many wonderful things that happened surround my departure/arrival that pointed me towards the big JC (Jesus Christ not Johnny Cash, who is by the way the medium JC).

Anyway, Bee has had an amazing life. She was a really '68er and, well let's just say she has some stories. I should get her to write a blog it would be much more interesting than mine. Bee is also a German, though her French is totally perfect and her grammar much better than most actual French people (I am so not the one to talk!).

Her English is pretty amazing too; occasionally I teach her new words but only colloquially (that's fun), or the correct pronunciation of manure. There is one thing that she says though, or the manner in which she says it, which stands out every time. Sometimes when you translate things there is a bit of a gap between the languages and the intended message does not come across quite as it might in it's native tongue. For example, I am apparently a REAL freak. Sincerely and honestly; but it's OK 'cause she likes freaks. As time has passed I've established that there are a good many of us, herself included, that fit into this category; and decided that I quite like the definition.

I admit though, tonight I was thrown. I was wearing my hair slightly differently (face-length bob with a fringe right now and I had a half french plait, for those that care) and had on brown and gold tones. Bee always like to comment (with absolute truth) on my appearance and today she looked at me totally shocked and delighted and said:
"You look really pretty. Strange that you look so nice!"

Thanks.

Now, I am not totally insecure and I have been there with the linguistic short-fallings before, so it was mostly just amusing that even as the evening wore on I was getting occasional glances and the odd reiterated "Amazing, really amazing".

Is it that shocking to you?!

My favourite is when she tells me she doesn't like what I am wearing; or what I was wearing at church last week. I feel it's important, particularly when I am getting the magnitude of compliments I was tonight, that they always come with this healthy pinch of salt. The "I love your outfit today" is so often followed up with a "Shame you weren't wearing it on Sunday" that I can't ever become vain.

Thanks for helping me keep it real!

Everything is meaningless...

Well, I just spent an amazing weekend doing loads of cool stuff in Geneva. Classic tourist trips like the UN tour and Red Cross museum coupled with enchanting random days full of new friends and strange experiences. What did I say at every turn? "I'm going to blog about this". And what am I now going to write about? Coffee shops and hair dressers...

Today I had a music lesson. It was not as progressive as I would have liked: spent most of the time gossiping and having a hoarse throat (not least after the as yet undescribed weekend) but it was quite fun. From here I decided to grab a Starbucks as I had a good book in my bag and an hour to kill before my colour appointment. This was a bit of a treat as I have been abstaining for a long time; partly due to general busyness couple with a *slight* need for detox... So I went for one of my two favourites: hazelnut mocha with non-fat milk and whipped cream (the non-fat justifies the whip). I got it venti (with a maple scone) and it came out grande so I sent it back. There is a big difference and I had been looking forward to this for ages so saw nowt wrong with getting from a service what one has asked, particularly when I put them under no pressure and did it with a smile. It was not my mistake... but sending it back sure was - there was no hazelnut syrup next time which I was partially devastated by and the cup was not even close to acceptably full. The look that returned my smile said "I have the power to destroy this small pleasure and I have just done it". Still, I tell myself that there is more to life than coffee and to give her the satisfaction of making me miserable was not where it was at. I read I eat I buy shoes (lovely brown leather 'thongs' to be precise). A bit concerning my card didn't work but hey, I had cash and I coped for over a week last-time without even that.

Hair time. Finally. I had REALLY been looking forward to/in need of this one. Mirrors of late have not been my friends. Les racines were showing big time and as I am currently growing it longer I decided that it was time to steer away from porn star blonde and into a more sophisticated 5-star blend.

Foolish to have expectations on arrival: never before Switzerland have I met more opinionated hair dressers. It may have something to do with the fact I don't speak great French but whenever I suggest one thing (using images are good for this) they suggest the opposite. Like the tousled choppy look that turned into a short bouncy bob or, on this occasion, the strawberry blond/dark red low lights that would look better in... purple.

Apparently my colouring does not suit rouge. What the hell does my colouring suit then?? Helloo... Ging-a. I was already unconvinced by the platinum and I now wonder at the mix of platinum, violet and dark brown that has blended together in a very fashionable, Solomon would be envious (if he weren't so damn Godly), silvery-grey.

Still. I read my book, I wait patiently and I think about a home dye job. My hairdresser was nice and I got to practise my French. Could have been worse I tell myself. Then I get to work, sit around for hours watching a kid draw a picture he is copying off the internet and helping him with bad French grammar (my specialty). All the time getting quite into the collection of letters I am reading to drown the boredom, if not more. I am really late there and had to go straight to French, both making the mistake of not telling my teacher I wouldn't be there till 8pm and not getting the chance for dinner either.

All told, sounds a bit like all the things I should have enjoyed were a little bit sour. But you know what, it was a ruddy bloody lovely day. 'Cause all the important things were great! Robyn turns up in Geneva and though it was stupidly early and she was a bit smelly (jokes! Not at all :-D) it was the best start ever. I get a text from a new friend who is really cool and totally exciting to meet up with again. I had a wonderful time with my French teacher despite the aforementioned circumstance (because that is all it was) and was reminded of the value and blessing that is our friendship. I even had the chance to keep an otherwise boreder (English grammar ain't so hot either!) 13 year old boy from watching cartoons and rotting his mind. Really, with all this in play, who cares about hair and coffee and money and supposed freedom from work?

And it did help that the book I was reading all day long was The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis (there may well be a review to come...) which just kept reminding me fabulously of how unimportant the trivial niggles are in the grand scheme of things, yet how much they can get in the way of what is real and relevant. Hence I ended up feeling particularly free from all that shite as it ridiculed what value we can give to such things; showing what it can lead to yet how we really don't need to be subject to it at all! I loved the moment when a French woman on the bus said to me "un bon livre" and we shared a common appreciation and emancipation.

For sure I fell into about a million traps of anger, resentment, vanity, gluttony, superiority, judgement, selfishness, indifference, slothfulness and more. But who doesn't? The fact is, I am going to go to bed in a minute (with my Canadian hot water bottle) knowing that all that crap can't come with me and palpably sticking up my fingers to all the nasty works of the world that tried to bring me down today. Careful mind, trying to keep my humility intact... Damn it, there it goes.

Eh bien. Tomorrow is another day... :-)

P.S. Starting to really love the new colour and am interested to find out how silver foxes are treated in Geneva versus brassy blondes...