Thought for the day

It is only after a frantic call to one’s parents to negotiate the loan and delivery of a spare fridge-freezer, as one stands forlornly in one’s Kitchen sometime after midnight, stirring defrosted frozen fruit into a botched overnight porridge, that one realises how loud the hum of a functioning fridge is. And how stupid one was not to notice that hum was absent.




The thing with fringes is that they are a dealbreaker.
A fringe that is well-behaved and allows itself to be styled will set the tone for your day, whispering comfortingly ‘because you’re worth it.’ It will allow you to look passable even if the rest of you is comprised of a spattering of hastily applied mascara long since smudged below your eyes, a pair of maternity dungarees accessorised with a smear of snot from a toddler-soothing-hiccuping-raggedy-head-on-your-shoulder-cuddle, and a pair of trainers that you bought in Freshers’ Week. It will save you any worry about the behommeth spot on your temple or your out of control eyebrows. You will save a third of your daily Foundation allowance not having to do anything with your forehead. Your day will be just fine.
But if even a tiny section of that fringe will not play ball or you are exposed to the minutest bit of moisture in the air, you are quite quite done-for. You have what resembles a greasy slug on your forehead. You are a horrible throwback to the 90s, or a scarecrow, or simply a moron. Once a fringe has thrown in the towel, there is no salvaging it. No-one can style out a crappy fringe day. You cannot clip the bugger up because it mocks you by being not quite long enough. A sweep to the slide only makes it greasier and more prone to cling to your forehead like a damp rag. A headscarf is the equivalent of neon flashing sign screaming LOOK AT THIS IDIOT! All day long people look at you and wince, or raise an eyebrow, or worst of all do that poorly covered guffaw-cough thing.
Yes yes yes, I know it is a hashtag first world problem. I do. I am being shallow as a puddle. But you see I started today so well – nice long shower, happy toddler, husband at home, FIVE birds spotted in the garden at the same time (joy!) and a good fringe day. And then that bloody rain shower happened and the moisture got to it, and I have spent the afternoon ducking my head and snarling under my breath and my mood is BLACK all for a little triangle of hair that just will not behave.

dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused

Style, in time

I was going to write about fringes. FRINGES! Imagine that, a whole post about fringes! But as we’re on the subject of growing up (I say we, it’s me isn’t it, all me, ploughing on bloody-mindedly hoping you come along for the ride) I thought I would share a thing I have been thinking about today. Style.
It has taken me an eternity to work this one out. Style is, I think, a thing that for most comes with age. Of course there are exceptions, people who are born with the ability to look wonderful. But for me, it has comes gradually, with the passage of time and the gaining of a little wisdom and the slow acceptance of the person you are and the skin you were born in.
Fashions, trends, this season, the next, they fleet into our lives and out again and then in again. And again. And we’re not all Cara Delevigne are we, in our crop tops, all severe ponytails and power eyebrows and killer cheekbones?? I realise now that me and trends do not a marriage make. No. Fashion chuckles at me. I have tried for a long time, have bought the latest must-have from Topshop and Zara, have clambered into them and paraded out of the door with the sinking realisation that although I should feel I million dollars, I do not. They are just not me. I would not look sublime in the latest Lagerfeld.
Style is subtler I think, an entirely individual thing. Like a boggart (strong cultural reference there Harry Potter fans!) that knows you from within but has gone rogue and reflects back to you the style that is all your own. As I have come to accept, since Blake burst into our lives two and a half years ago and my clothing budget disappeared along with my frenzied need to buy Grazia each week, style is about you. Simple works for me. Simple cuts, simple colours, little details. Today I wore a plain purple dress, bought for a Wedding four years ago, with a navy belt that is centuries old and plain nude shoes. It wasn’t remotely of the moment but for me, it worked.
Pictured are the three pieces of jewellery I wore with it. The necklace, bracelet and charm were all gifts for my 30th, pieces that friends picked out specifically for me. The earrings were given to me on my 18th Birthday by my oldest friend. In the years since, I have grown into them. All three have become part of my style and I treasure them.
And so, in my 30th year, I have made the decision that I will try to be true to myself and my own style. I will wear simple. When I have money to spend on clothes I will take my time and buy a piece that suits me. I will try to age stylishly.
All got a bit serious there didn’t it? Shall we all have a drink? Any men still with me? No?? Coming soon: fringes!

dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused