The Lost Art of Back-Combing

Life is starting to get busy, which is a good thing, though my mind is not used to being quite so occupied and is begging for its own time again. Yeah, yeah, I hear ya.

Once again, I missed Shabbat, but this time rather than being wasted on drugs, it was in pursuit of pure blast-from-the-past fun. On Saturday morning I caught the train back up to Newcastle, looking forward to celebrating my Longest-Best-Friend's (LBF) 40th Birthday, in pure 80's style.

Although, isn't the phrase 'pure 80's style' a contradiction of terms?

I don't care. I was ready. I bought the super-skinny fit jeans, the "Choose Life" t-shirt with day-glo pink letters, the vibrant pink leg-warmers and sweatbands. I was almost set. Except for the hair.

I pondered the options. My fringe was too long for a purdy cut (circa 1981, with a fringe that with enough hairspray could be lifted free from my forehead like a bird's wing) and it was entirely the wrong shape for a mullet (circa 1983, all photographic evidence recently destroyed). The fringe was too short for a New Romantics "I can't see where I am going" flop and I ran out of time to find a wig.

I was still none the wiser when the train pulled in to Newcastle station. And then my LBF arrived in the car fresh from the hairdressers and the answer was clear - a can of hairspray and a comb.

It's amazing what you can do with a can of hairspray and a comb. I didn't realise my hair could ever get so big - I hadn't back-combed for years. It was a moment to remember as my usually lifeless hair grew in to a style of Banarama proportions.

My LBF had hired a DJ for the night and he played nothing but songs from the 80's. Every time I tried to leave the dance floor, another song would begin, to the cries of "Oh My God! This is a Classic! I'd forgotten all about this!" I danced for 5 hours. The hair survived, losing maybe an inch in height by the time this photo was taken: (that's me in the middle, LBF on the right, LBF's husband on the left dressed as Vivian from the Young Ones)

I wish I had taken more photos, but what's a party girl to do, but dance? Siouxsie Sioux made an appearance, Adam Ant showed up, Limahl from Kajagoogoo, Whitney Houston, Madonna, Kevin Keegan, Del Boy and Morrisey... even the Green Cross Code Man (although I was sure that he was from the seventies - but who cares - the outfit was hysterical). There were shell suits and shoulder pads, plastic beads and legwarmers as far as the eye could see. And most importantly, LBF had a fantastic evening.

Back in the "real world" I had the strangest meeting with my teacher yesterday. After 2 months of depression, facing fears, major realisations, trips in to space, energy pouring out of my spine, I went in to yesterday's meeting not knowing quite what to expect.

He asked me for an update on moving. I told him. He asked me for an update on work. I told him. Then he said: "So, anything else you want to talk about? Anything else on your mind?"

Me: "Errrrmmmm (surely there must be something bugging me?) .... No, I don't think so?"

Teacher: "You sure? Because if not we can study something. Nothing? Nothing that you want to ask?"

Me: "Errrmmm, noooo, not really. I can make something up if it helps?"

Teacher: "No, I don't think we need to go there". He laughed, and went to fetch the Days of Power.

So there is a part of me that is a little bewildered - a little shell-shocked, perhaps, at not really knowing where I am. The past few months came out of the blue and took my legs away, took me to a place that I couldn't control. And now I feel like moving forwards again, ready to start making progress, but I feel as though I am tiptoeing away from a Dragon's Lair, wondering if I have killed the beast or whether it is just sleeping. As if at some point soon I might once again feel its breath on the back of my neck and feel the horror of going under once more.

Well, I can't hang around this cave all day, waiting for him to stir. Dragons are far more likely to wake up if you stare at them. Out in to the wilderness I go, comb and spray at the ready...

The Slippery Nipple (2)

On my 32nd birthday, which happened to be a Friday, I took the rare opportunity to invite any nearby friends and half of the office to come out and celebrate with me.

As I was inviting half of the people from the office, I felt obliged to invite everyone, including a couple of people who I had hoped would turn down the invite, but unfortunately didn't. How was I supposed to let my hair down with my boss and his wife lurking in the background?

The evening was to start with a bite to eat in a trendy bar in Hertford, followed by drinks for as long as anyone wanted to stay.

My chosen look for the evening was going to be trendy: Black trousers, black halter-neck top, silver chain belt, chunky silver necklace, bracelet and earrings, black heels. Hair short and spiky. I looked good. I looked skinny. I looked like The Party Girl. Bring it on.

The party kicked off a little later than expected, and by the time people started to show up I had eaten some walnut bread to keep me going, and to soak up the first Vodka and Coke of the evening.

When the first friend arrived he asked "What are you drinking?" and that was the last moment of the evening that I mentioned the word vodka. Everyone who turned up after this came to say Hello carrying a new vodka: Vodka and Orange, Vodka and Coke, Vodka and Tonic. The word had got round that I was drinking vodka, and who was I to be rude and turn down a drink? Especially considering that nobody appeared interested in ordering any food - and after a couple of drinks in quick succession I was too drunk to be interested in food either.

But I wasn't too drunk to notice that my halter-neck top - which was matt black cotton-lycra with "secret support" was continually doing its best to head south. The broad elastic band kept sliding down my ribs, elongating the stretchy halter-neck straps in to thin strips. I couldn't seem to go ten minutes without hitching the top up one side and then the other. But at least I had the wherewithal to hitch it. Ha! I can handle my drink!

At 11pm the bar closed and we made our way to another bar that closed at midnight. To say that I was drunk was a little bit of an understatement *hitch*hitch*. One of my friends then decided to break the run of vodkas and ordered me a Lavender Aftershock (equal measures of red (Cinnamon) and blue (Mint) Aftershock). He warned me not to drink it all, but before I knew it, the glass was empty. How did that happen? *hitch*hitch* Someone then bought me a glass of water, which I knocked off the side with my elbow and turned round completely oblivious at the sound of the glass breaking all over the floor *hitch*hitch*

At the end of the night, another of my friends (the eBay Queen, pre-twins) asked me how I was getting home.

"Cab" I said, aimlessly pointing to where the taxi rank could have been.

"Do you have one booked?" she asked

"'shover there, shumwhere" I replied.

"Yes, but do you have one booked?"

Once I understood the question, I shook my head *hitch* hitch*

"Right, come on, we'll give you a lift"

The apartment I was renting was in an old building centred around a courtyard. At that time, there were three enormous workman's holes at the entrance to the car park, barricaded off with bright orange cones and florescent barriers. My friends parked up where they could easily turn round and we chatted for at least half an hour - the main subject being whether I had offended anyone during the evening or done anything which might become office gossip. I really couldn't remember, but apparently I'd managed to escape humiliating myself despite being ten times more plastered than anyone else there.

Finally I got out of the car, swung my bag over my shoulder, and tottered towards the front of the building, narrowly missing falling straight in to one of the barricaded pits. Coo, that was close. I regained my balance and my friend's husband put the car headlights on full beam. How kind, I thought. I turned round and gave them a big wave: I'm fine! Really! I turned back round and swaggered off, round the front of the building, up the stairs and in to my apartment.

Wow, I was busting for a wee... quick get to the bathroom... oo, what relief! That's better!

As I stood to try and drag up my trousers, I caught sight of my reflection in the bathroom mirror and froze in horror. The halter-neck top had twisted sideways and there I stood completely exposed - on full beam. No way! How did that happen? Or more importantly when did that happen? Surely this had happened only when I got in to the bathroom? Yes, it must have done. Maybe the dash in getting to the loo.... I couldn't remember. Crap.

I sent a text to my friend. When you left me, were my nipples showing?

Thirty seconds later, she responded. I cringed as I read her reply: Yep. Still laffin'

Thankfully I had managed to keep myself decent throughout the evening, and my top had slipped when I had thrown my bag over my shoulder as I clambered out of the car. Hence the full beam. My friend had laughed so hard on the way home that she had nearly wet herself and had to beg her husband to slow down over the speed bumps.

Practical joker that she is, she wasn't going to tell me what had happened, but wanted to see whether I 'noticed first'. Ah, a little bit of humility. We still cry with laughter every time the story is told.

I can wish that I had not been so drunk - blame the vodka, or that I had chosen a different outfit for the evening - blame the halter-neck top.

But deep down in my heart, I blame the slippery nipples.