OK, no fabulous book deal yet (expected this week) but things are changing. As an adapting agoraphobic I have tackled all sorts of scary occasions including theatres and universities and public transport. I now enjoy eating out, I love walking in the countryside and the seaside here, I've even been into London - twice this year. But hairdressers are especially scary...terrifying places full of snapping scissors and judgemental hairdressers. So it was with trepidation that I ventured into a hairdresser with my thirteen year old to watch the scary people cut her hair.
Ten minutes later, with a happily truncated daughter, the charming and helpful Mersadie suggested I might like to just sit in the chair. Maybe have a little trim? Just snip off the loose ends that must have accumulated in the last six years. Seriously, it's a nuisance, it's so long I can tuck it into my knickers (what a great look that would be?) and usually have it tied back, in a bun or contorted into a plait.
I got comfortable in the chair and remembered to breathe out. Whoosh. Maybe she could cut it about as long as Rosie's...who was now dancing around the shop looking in all the mirrors. Maybe with a bit of layers or something? In 1996 (last shop haircut) I think that was what they did.
That's what she did. Stopping with each few inches to give me a chance to say 'that's enough', she cut my hair. I concentrated on breathing. In...out. I boasted a bit about the impending book deal, not because I really believed it yet (I'm not sure I do yet), but for a bit of Dutch courage.
It ended up looking really nice (I think). I don't keep leaning on it, cooking can go on without me catching fire or adding frazzled hair to the dish, it was fine. And painless. I even discussed, when I remembered to breathe, maybe one day having highlights to disguise the grey hairs that are creeping in.
So, I'm sitting here with my new hair, tapping away at the sequel, waiting for a book deal. The sun is even out, intermittently. Happy days.