Love is in the hair

Yesterday was a big day in my Kuwait life; a make or break day; if this went badly then possible departure would be necessary. This is something all expat women have to face at some point upon their arrival in their new country, facing the fear of the unknown and walking boldly over the threshold. Holding their breath with anticipation and saying a small prayer to the gods, as they take a seat in the waiting area, hearts beating. So the leap of faith is taken, no going back, the scissors are out………the hairdresser approaches.

A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life – Coco Chanel

Now I have never been a vain person and growing up was not someone who would spend hours upon hours applying makeup and doing hair. In fact I remember turning up for my first day at dance college, an ethusiastic fresh-faced 20 year old, hair pulled back into a frizzy pony tail (I’m blessed/cursed with curly hair which just went into frizz before I discovered straighteners) and being told that we could no longer come to class without a full face, which must be re-applied throughout the day. So a trip to Covent Garden and more than my student funds could afford I walked out of MAC ready to take on the world. I subsequently went home and relegated my Body Shop pressed powder, which had served me well since I was 15, then came the realisation that there is a whole beauty world out there, waiting to be discovered. And so it began……

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Good food, good life

I am one of those people who thinks about food all the time, it seems to be in my subconscious aiding every decision and I think my life is better for it. My Instagram page shamelessly posts my food experiences, and they are a reminder for me rather than the judgmental follower who rolls their eyes at yet another weird angled food shot. Food just like music, smells and books can evoke so many emotions and memories; that Greek taverna on your first holiday with the love of your life, the smell of turkey wafting on Christmas morning or knowing you will never touch another meatloaf again after the Home Ec class disaster. I have not always had a good relationship with food and I know too well that it can control your life in a negative way, but I’m a long way down the road and letting the past go and now I am happy to eat myself around the world.

Square peg, round hole

From the moment we arrive on this earth, we seem to spend our lives being ushered between social groups, the mother’s choice of where she places the baby in the music tots class and what friends they make on the play mat seems to  lead to a predetermined path of where they will fit in. I have often wondered about how my life would have been if I had fallen into the an alternative social group and would the parallel universe me be any different, that Sliding Doors moment of every choice has fated us to be where we are today.

We have all seen those American teen, coming of age, high school movies, where the cheerleaders, jocks and geeks barely interact, as they have found social acceptance in their worlds and believe that it is better to befriend like-minded people, than give in to social suicide of not belonging and roaming the school corridor alone. We all watched and we all feared that this was real life, so the teenage me gave into the pressure and found a group of friends who accepted me and my school years were saved and I flew under the radar of being fairly unknown therefore avoiding many social nightmares. 

Your wish is my command

Today’s post is coming from the relative comfort (my back is still limiting my every move) of a sun bed at my beach club. The weather has just turned and we are enjoying beautiful sunshine days chilling on the beach or by the pool. Now before you stop reading due to my brazen promotion of my chilled day in the sun, this post is actually going to explore the service industry of the Middle East, as I was reminded this was something I wanted to post within seconds of me setting up my towels this morning. A member of the Food & Beverage Team had eagerly made himself available to be at my beck and call during my tanning session, when I realised this was no longer a novelty gesture which blew me away, but an expected occurrence.

In the U.K. customer service seems to be a dying art and one of my pet peeves. Numerous times I’ve stood at a cash point, where the cashier has barely looked up from her conversation about her latest social escapades, to even acknowledge me, the customer. As I hand over my money for the piece of clothing that is then thrown into a bag, she still hasn’t met my rather angry gaze. It makes my blood boil and more times than not you get little or no reaction from your protests. What happened to the customer is always right and simple manners?  Ugh I can feel a rant coming on, so I’ll withdraw from this scenario.