Seriously, I lose enough hair in two days to supply another person. I eat for two. I should sell it for wigs. Etc.
So anyway, I told her I liked the length, and I wanted some shape now, get rid of the bottom and graduate it. Think 1920s-30s. "Typical Olivia!" I hear half of you exclaim.
Indeed, even at its shortest it was like the Eton Crop, adopted by women in 1926:
Last time she cut my hair, summer had barely started. She was shocked at what it looks like long(ish). After she'd trimmed about a bit, it looked swept and romantic, sort of like this:
Then she got out the brush and blow-dried it straight, all around my head. Told her I looked like a mushroom - but she needed to do it to see where else she needed to cut. And then! And then! She straightened my hair! She took one of those ceramic hair-ironing things to MY head! To quote Bertie Wooster, "I mean to say, what?!"
I know, we had agreed to straighten it a bit to see what it would be like. I sat there stroking the smoothness of it...Straight hair, like what other people have!
She went around chipping and snipping, and then styled it with moulding wax. So now I look like this:
It's a bit hard-looking, and I want a softer edge. Oh yeah, and she moved my parting to the other side (???) What's that for?
Well, after pushing it back from tickling my forehead (drove me bonkers), and after it got blown and wet in the rain....still straight...can't wait till I wash it and get me pretty curly-wurlies back :P
Freshly shorn and walking to the station, I realised I needed to go, so I nipped into Harrods (to use the loo) and didn't even try to find the Krispy Kreme shop. Not that I could if I'd tried.
Never go to Harrods. You will not find what you seek. You will get lost in the labyrinthine departments, and the Sphinx in the Egyptian hall will eventually claim your soul.
Actually, there are people wearing gold Information sashes who are supposedly well-qualified to direct you so after going in a few circles I asked one. After a long slog up the escalators and about half a mile later, I ended up in one of the Luxury Toilets (it announced loudly on a brass wall plaque). An attendant stands by a table of perfumes and hand lotions, and motions you towards the next available cubicle. Quelle metier!
While I was upstairs I thought I might as well look for Christmas cards. Despite following the signs, another lady and I got lost on the way. To be expected, of course.
Another thing about Harrods apart from being impossible to navigate and full of tourists cluttering the exits and every possible walkway: Service is nearly unobtainable, busy or not, and the card section was surprisingly un-busy. I stood there waiting beside a mother and daughter while they paid for their purchases. There were a couple of people hanging about by the counter. One of the more managerial-looking assistants helped out, then she proceeded to help the hangabouts and I piped up with, "Wait, what about me, I've been here for ages." She started to protest about helping the other people, and I said, "Yes but how long have they been there?"
While I paid up, I grumbled audibly: "Now I remember why I never come to Harrods. I never get served...!"
Honestly, my most vivid memories of the place in recent years is of standing about indefinitely with tea caddies and chocolate bars that I start to not want because you can't get served.
But I will enthusiastically mention the mini ice rink they have in one of the windows, where a skater dressed in a little Santa-style frock was performing. Actually it was rather naff. I don't know how the place can redeem itself in my mind. Although, seeing the floors labelled "By Appointment Only" and "Concierge Service" and the various cafes and restaurants, I can see how some people would enjoy living it up in that place. No thanks.
Well there you go, as with McDonald's, I have now made my bi-annual visit. Next year I shall slash my attendance by half.
It should be called Horrids.