Tangent: Pink fetish

I actually hated pink. It was never 'my colour'.

I never even thought about colours, just wore my clothes!

I had my skin tone analysed about a week after having my ears pierced twice, because really once just wasn't enough. I had to be different, so when everyone else was having theirs pierced once and that was 'ouch' enough, I was insistent on twice.

The very clever colour consultant told me I was an 'Autumn' and gave me a swatch of very dull drab hues that didn't excite me one bit. Her mantra was that when you wore the right colour people would comment on how lovely you looked , but if it was all wrong for you, they would merely say 'I like that dress'. Of course it was the 'lovely' aspect that totally sold me on the idea.

I rushed off to the nearest department store in search of the new me. What a frustrating afternoon that was. I just couldn't understand why the postbox red was all wrong whereas the bland tomato tint was the correct one. My only choices seemed to be dull tans, ochres, burnt oranges and sickly yellows. The worst part was that 'Autumns' can't wear black near their faces as it makes them look haggard, but I needed my black, it made me look thin!

I went home feeling very despondent, believing that I had wasted my precious money and my valuable time. Needless to say I threw the swatch in the deepest drawer and forgot about it.

Months after that I overheard a woman at my yoga class saying that she had just had herself 'colour coded' and rah rah rah how wonderful it all was, completely changed her life. The next lesson I took my colour 'thingie' with me and showed her and she immediately offered to come shopping with me.

This was a new experience for me as I had never been one of those woman who shopped and coffeed with a friend or friends. I have always valued my personal space specially when it comes to buying new things. I cannot see what these females gain by trying on clothes together and giving nonsensical advice to another person whose skin they do not fill.

With lots of trepidation and a dry mouth I met her the following afternoon and we 'did it'. I felt like Cinderella being fitted for the ball, and she knew her stuff. She knew exactly what to put with the drab mousy brown to make it come alive and how to mix and match various bits of clothing to give quite a stunning result. She also somehow understood that I wasn't the frilly, pink, cutesy pie type of woman, but rather a 'feet firmly on the ground' gamin sort of girl.

When she suggested something in pink, albeit muted corally pink, I gulped twice but as she was steering this ship and I trusted her by then, I tried it and thought, 'nice' ( horrid word, means nothing) quite okay, but not yet quite me.

How did I know that 30 years later, not only would I have a large percentage of pink in my wardrobe but also matching pink hair and pink glasses. She would be so proud of me now. SO if you are out there reading this - thanks again!

Four: Pink hair

Now I hear you saying,' this is getting ridiculous, how old are you? 16 or nearly 60?'

Tee hee, if you read my last entry you will have seen the fabulous (Sharon Osbourne's word, not mine) glasses.

So, if you were me, what's the next thing you would do? Go and get some pink hair? No, no, it didn't work like that at all.

You see, I started making my list of '60 things to do before you're 60' a few months ago, and one of the items was * colour my hair * (again) because I had done this before.

When you're born with mousy, watery brown hair which is fine yet frizzy, sometimes wavy-yes, I know - what a great combination that would be these days, you have no option but to try to improve that image you see looking at you every morning.

So, I did. Often. Colour my hair. Mostly auburn or various shades of auburn. It was never too red or too auburn, just a burnished coppery, auburny red. Know what I mean?

I have always had a very short style, mostly because of lack of quantity and quality, but thankfully I could get away with it, having ears that were quite neatly placed beside my not too large face. Oops, that's without the high forehead I was blessed with. A forehead that seems to stretch upwards forever, and nowadays is patterned with 'pleats'.

About a week after I got the new glasses and began strutting around like a peacock, I went off to the hairdresser for my usual monthly cut (which usually ends up resembling newly mowed lawn). The hairdresser immediately remarked 'Oh, I do like your new glasses, why don't you make your hair pink to match them?' They certainly know how to drum up business.

Up to that moment I was quite proud of my greying (salt and pepper) hair and wore it as a badge of pride, much like I did the pleats. Suddenly it dawned on me, 'this is it, the time, one of the items on my list, why not?' I decided to only have pink highlights, but insisted on exactly the same colour as my frames.
'No problem' he said and within the hour I was transformed. It looked as if I had fallen on my head into some pink paint, and then tried to rub it all off. Yikes.

By the time I got home I was in a real state, panicky and embarrassed to show my husband. There had been many times in the past when I arrived home after a cut to be greeted with 'Oh no, I'm living with a boy again'. This time he just stood there with his mouth half open and a wry mocking expression on his face. But as soon as he saw my stricken face he immediately altered his mien and took on a sweet, accepting nonchalance of 'this is nice'. I didn't take it any further as you can imagine.

That wasn't the end of it. I had to go to work the following week after half term and face all my friends as well as the pupils, the harshest critics of all. I couldn't sleep that night, very silly but true. It was worse than my finals at University.

The next day I slunk into school only to be met by 'Ooooh' and 'Aaahs' and 'Wows' and 'Goshes' (mostly 'gosh you're brave'). But the turning point for me came when one of the older girls in year 6 did a double take in the corridor and said 'That's sooooo cool!!'

Well I was chuffed. I had never been called 'cool' even when I was of the right age to be considered cool. I felt the admiration and even respect that day and it was fabulous (thanks Sharon).

As you have probably guessed by now, I am not your regular run of the mill 59 year old, but now I felt I was truly on the road to achieving some of the 60 things that I had planned to do and soon. What will I do next?