I know. Sexy.
I am suffering from what I have decided to call "(wo)man flu." It's basically a bad cold, but combined with my asthma, I currently feel as though a small elephant has decided to take up residence on my chest and my breathing is so heavy that I sound as though I'm making a dirty phone call. I'm feeling pretty sorry for myself and so this week's Sunday Challenge has disappeared into the same mysterious place my sense of wellness has gone. I'm hoping it'll be back next Sunday, because I've actually planned next week's challenge in advance and it's gonna be gooooood. Yes, every single one of those Os were necessary, In fact, I may go back and add a few more...
Unfortunately, coming down with a cold has not been the only crappy thing that has happened this week. As you can see from the above photo, I no longer have a fringe. Considering I have a forehead that could rival Ant McPartlin's, this is not something that occurred by choice.
Those readers who know me in "real life" (I'm told such a place exists...) or who've been reading this blog for a long time (in which case, your long service medal is in the post) will know that when left to grow naturally, my hair is pretty much an Afro. Yes, I am a weedy white girl with hair like Mel B. Because when Mother Nature created me, she wanted to be sure there was nothing that couldn't be mocked, clearly. In the interest of fairness, I'm going to post a photo of my hair looking au natural. Shield your eyes if you're of as nervous disposition...
Yes I'm hugging a mannequin. It was a phase I was going through...
And yes, in case you're wondering, my blog title - The Rambling Curl - is a reference to my untamed tresses. Often, well-meaning people tell me how lucky I am to have such natural curls. But believe me, when you walk into a hair salon and have stylists refuse to cut your hair because they don't "do" that type, you don't feel lucky. When you have to spend a fortune on anti-frizz products, you don't feel lucky. When you can't get your hair into any of the same, pretty styles your friends can, you don't feel lucky. Eventually, I started relaxing it at home with a chemical straightener meant for black women with Afro hair. My hair never went straight, but the curls got much looser and I was much happier. Then, two years or so ago, I had it chemically straightened in a salon for the first time ever. I was thrilled with the poker straight results and I've had it like that ever since. Which is great. Except it burns one heck of a hole in your wallet.
So, recently, noticing that my hair was curling at the roots and in need of a touch-up at the salon, but also noticing my lack of money to pay for a straighten, I ordered the product I used to use all those years ago (like, three, but ssshh, I like to sound dramatic). Knowing that home-straightening kits can be all kinds of bad news for your hair, I opted to only leave it on for half the recommended processing time. Thank goodness I did, because just 12 minutes later, when I came to wash the product off, I had no fringe. It literally snapped off. GOOD TIMES. Not only that, but the ends of my hair were brittle and split. I looked bloody awful. So awful I could have cried. And so I totally did.
Now, in case you're wondering why I'm not naming and shaming the product I used, it's because, in its defence, I think I may have used the wrong strength for my hair type. My hair is very fine and I usually use the children's version, which I never had a single problem with. This time, I used a super strength adult version, so the blame here is entirely on me, not the product. And no, I didn't do a strand test, because I am an idiot from the planet NOBRAINS.
That was on Tuesday, so I was hoping my week would pick up. Wrong.
I went to bed on Thursday night feeling pretty much okay, although a tad confused that I felt so stuffed, considering I hadn't really eaten much more than usual. I woke up at ten to one in the morning, feeling really uncomfortable. By ten past two, I was hunched over the toilet, wondering if literally my entire lower intestine was about to launch itself into the bowl.
Again, anyone who knows me in "real life" will tell you that I am majorly phobic about sickness. If someone is sick around me, I panic and run away. If I think I am going to be sick, I've been known to literally pace the floor, breathing like I'm in labour, mentally chanting "I CAN DO THIS. I CAN BEAT THIS. I WILL NOT BE SICK." This usually happens moments before I throw my guts up. It's a rather unfortunate and deeply unsuccessful ritual.
I was awake for the rest of the night, either sitting up in bed, groaning to myself (and mentally planning my funeral, because clearly I was dying) or rushing to the bathroom. Not my favourite way to spend a night, it has to be said and one I don't fancy repeating any time soon.
I had already come down with this cold prior to the sickness bug, so it was a double whammy of infinite suckiness. Although, once the sickness had subsided, I was at least able to enjoy the perks of being ill. Namely, being in my pyjamas ALL THE TIME and lazing around in bed watching awesome DVDs:
"Roads?! Where we're going, we don't need roads!"
Anyway, now I'm non-sicky, but very much, um, cold-y. I'm going on holiday to Butlin's tomorrow for the week, so I'm stopping off at the doctors en route to be checked over in case I need steroids for my asthma. And yes, I promise to try very hard not to breathe on any redcoats. I don't want to ruin the end of their season, after all...
All that remains to be said is I am very, very sorry for the lack of a Sunday challenge this week, but this week has, in fairness, been pretty craptastic.
BUT... Butlin's will provide me with two challenges to blog about over the next two Sundays. I won't spoil the surprise (because I know you're on tenterhooks, right? RIGHT?!), but I promise the Sunday Challenge will be reinstated next weekend.
Unless I come down with anything else... Ebola hasn't hit Cornwall yet, has it?!