Tag Archives: Hair

Normal Service Will Shortly Be Resumed

2 Oct

Image result for i'll be back

Hello, bloggers who used to read me.

I have finished the MA and I’m on my rest month (very much needed), but I intend to begin blogging again, at least once a week.

I say ‘rest month’…it includes a choir concert (in which I sing, not listen in the audience. I say ‘sing’…), a visit from the grandson (his first to our home!), the usual writing groups, sundry poetry readings, poetry workshops, a visit to the Hub (still residing here, but I have to schedule him in), and SLEEP.

In the meantime, I thought I’d repost my favourite-ever photograph, to give you something gross to think about:

Photo by Best DSC!

When my hair was long, the Hub shoved it through my sleeve and told me I needed to shave my armpits.

My hair is now short but the latter is true. No time to shave ‘pits when you’re on a deadline.

See you in Movember, when I shall not be plucking my moustache hairs, in solidarity with lazy people.

Donate Your Hair To Children With Cancer

22 Mar


If you have long hair like mine was, and decide to cut it, you can send it off to a charity in the UK called Little Princess.  They make wigs for children who have lost their hair through cancer.  A quick Google search found similar charities in other countries.  Please think about doing it if you’re going short; you need a minimum of 7″/17cm and all it costs is a padded envelope and postage.

My hair was long but thin, so my plait was pretty feeble; but every little helps.

When the Hub posted it off, the clerk asked if there was anything valuable in the packet.  The Hub explained what was in it and she winked and said, Aw, that’s nice.  Are you going to do the same with your beard?

I think he should; I heard their office needs re-wiring.


Short Cut

11 Mar

This was me last Friday morning:


Me as Captain Caveman:


This was me on Friday afternoon:


What do you think?

Joke 920

29 Sep

Woman1:  Oh! You got a haircut! That’s so cute!


Hairstyle (Photo credit: Frédéric Renaud)

Woman2:  Do you think so? I wasn’t sure when she gave me the mirror. I mean, you don’t think it’s too fluffy looking?

Woman1:  No, it’s perfect. I’d love to get my hair cut like that, but I think my face is too wide. I’m pretty much stuck with this stuff, I think.

Woman2:  Are you serious? I think your face is adorable, and you could easily get one of those layer cuts – that would look so good on you. I was actually going to do that except that I was afraid it would accent my long neck.

Woman1:  Oh – I would love to have your neck! Anything to take attention away from this two-by-four I have for a shoulder line.

Woman2:  Are you kidding? I know girls that would love to have your shoulders. Everything drapes so well on you. I mean, look at my arms – see how short they are? If I had your shoulders I could get clothes to fit me so much easier…


Man1:  Haircut?

Man2:  Yeah.


The Seven Stages Of Hair

28 Sep

I have to say, I love turning fifty!  I’ve been celebrating since July and it’s not over yet – it’s the birthday that keeps on giving.

My lovely friend Christine told me to keep last Saturday morning free.  She collected me at 8:30 and walked me up to her hairdresser’s, Hair @ 42 on Bloom Street in Edgeley, where I had a cut and blow and a manicure!  How annoying that I had showered in honour of our date.

Right now, Christine is on a cruise, celebrating her own birthday.  As she won’t be here for my birthday, spoiling me was the least she could do, I’m sure you’ll agree.  Christine knows I haven’t been to a hairdresser for about six years; and I’ve never had a manicure.  I have the best friends!

The idea was that we do the whole thing together – me for my birthday; Christine for her cruise – but she couldn’t get matching appointments.  She waited in the salon, however, denying boredom and taking barked-out camera direction from me, for your delectation.

Janet the Hairdresser was lovely but I’m not sure she was a real hairdresser because she wasn’t at all intimidating and she seemed genuinely interested in what I wanted done to my hair.  She was most obliging, as well, stopping to allow Christine to take a picture whenever I gave the word.  When it’s time for my next hair cut in six years’ time, that’s where I’ll be going.

The hair part was fun but the manicure was funner.  Christine knows Alison the manicurist well and we had a girly, giggly session, the likes of which I haven’t had since my teens.  I can’t tell you what was said because what happens in the nail room stays in the nail room; but I can tell you that I went to the toilet before we started (just as well, with all the giggling that followed) and I was so enthralled with my hair, admiring it in the mirror, wondering if I could ever reproduce the style, that I forgot to wash my hands.  Fortunately, I realised before I touched anything, and went back to do it.  I don’t think that has happened since I was a toddler.

Bet you wish that information had stayed in the nail room, don’t you?

The Seven Stages Of Hair



(On my part, when I worked it out and then had to say it out loud)

You'll have to lose 2 1/2 inches if you want it in good condition. Six years!  Tch!

You’ll have to lose 2 1/2 inches if you want it in good condition.
Six years! Tch!


Just do it!

Just do it!


Will the Hub ever speak to me again?

Will the Hub ever speak to me again?


Take the picture, Christine: I don't mind looking stupid.

Take the picture, Christine: I don’t mind looking stupid.


I'm being pampered!  I LOVE going to the hairdresser's!

I’m being pampered! I LOVE going to the hairdresser’s!


Get me, all posh!

Get me, all posh!


Christine&Tilly Friends 4EVR

Friends 4EVR


Joke 808

9 Jun

bad hare day

Image taken from Answer It’s blog.


A man and a small boy entered a barbershop together. After the man received the full treatment – shave, shampoo, manicure, haircut – he placed the boy in the chair.

“I’m going to buy a  tie to wear for the wedding,” he said.  “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

When the boy’s haircut was completed and the man still hadn’t returned, the barber said, “Looks like your daddy’s forgotten all about you.”

“That wasn’t my daddy,” said the boy. “He just walked up, took me by the hand and said, ‘Come on, son, we’re gonna get a free haircut!’ “


From funnydb.net.

I Don’t Like My New Desk Any More

1 Feb
Roger's Hair Loss 1

Roger’s Hair Loss 1 (Photo credit: roger_mommaerts) I’m showing you this photo because it was suggested by Zemanta even though it has nothing to do with spiders.  You didn’t want to see a picture of a spider, did you?

This morning, I brought up my first cup of tea, settled down to read some blogs and answer comments, and I felt a tickle on my chin.  My hair is so long now, it is always bothering me; I go to bed in a plait.  That started the day after I woke up, choking, to find my hair entangled in my necklace.  I plaited it every night after that and it was about eighteen months later, when I was telling a friend who was admiring my crinkles how they came about, that the question was asked, ‘So why didn’t you just take off the necklace?’

Anyway, I brushed my hair away from my chin this morning and a big, fat spider jumped onto my laptop keyboard.  It ran underneath but by the time I’d tipped the laptop, the spider had disappeared.  

Now I have a spider living in my desk and/or bookshelf; using my stationery and waiting to jump out when I’ve got the hiccups.

I may never come in here again.

So long; it was nice knowing you.


Hair Of The Hub

4 Jan

The Hub has been the butt of my nagging for weeks.  I’m all about Christmas cheer but I never expected to marry Santa:


His beard got bigger and bushier and my nagging got louder and longer.  The Hub decided he’d had enough and would have a little fun at my expense.

He came to bed the other night, beard intact.  At four a.m. he went to the bathroom.

When I got up next morning, I found the little gift he left me, à la cat:


A hairball, you vulgar-minded lot.

Overjoyed, I went to kiss him with his morning coffee but recoiled when I found Paulie Sr from Orange County Choppers  in our bed:


I avoided looking at him all day as he giggled away.

He finally relented in the middle of the next night, and normal Hub has been restored:


He may not be happy, but I am.  Don’t bother feeling sorry for him; I won’t pass on the comments.

Beauty Tip: Moisturise Your Eyebrows

3 Nov

There’s no denying it: my eyebrows have dandruff.  I won’t post a photo of it because, eurgh.

Blogging curse:

self-conscious about my eyebrows.  

Frida Kahlo

Frida Kahlo (Photo credit: Travis S.)

I post a lot of photos of myself on my blog (and yet I am not at all vain; aren’t I lovely?).  I began to notice a while back that my eyebrows look massive in photographs.  They are not massive, but they look it.  

I keep my eyebrows trim with Spud’s nose hair clippers* but, despite being quite narrow, they look bushy.  It may be my glasses making them look like an old man’s because, when I take off the glasses and look at my eyebrows in the mirror, they are definitely not bushy.  Not now I have had at them with my Mum’s old tweezers.

*The clippers he gave to me one Christmas, not any clippers he might use on his own nose. Eurgh again.  What’s wrong with you people?

Impressive Eyebrows

Impressive Eyebrows (Photo credit: Mickie Quick)

I have pared them back to look almost pencilled in but now I am afraid to take a photograph because what if I’m wrong and they are still as bushy as a squirrel’s tail?

Also, I noticed something when I was de-hairing myself: the skin on my eyebrows is really dry.   I moisturise regularly so I don’t understand it.  I slather that stuff on my face every day, as my mother taught me (I wish I had listened to her when she said slap it on your chin to keep it from doubling and your neck to keep it from wrinkling but you know what teenage daughters are like).  I always have cream in the house because I have a friend who is allergic to everything and she always gives me her handcream gift sets after Christmas (do I own nothing in my beauty regimen that I bought for myself?).  

I don’t understand it.  

Ah well.  Time to trim my moustache.  Where are the Hub’s clippers?

For more Six Word Saturdays, go here.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Growth

5 Aug


I think I need to shave under my arms:

The Hub did this (who else?).  He took my pony tail and tucked it under my top, pushing the hair out of the arm hole.  

We don’t have any money but we do have a lot of fun together 😀

I am so going to get a lot more hairvert searches after posting this, aren’t I?




Repair In Haste; Repent At Leisure

24 Feb
Ripples of tapwater over a plughole

Image via Wikipedia

I am easy made queasy: watching people vomit on tv, or even brush their teeth – all that disgusting foam; it’s why I threw away my electric toothbrush – turns my stomach.  I had been married six years before I was able to scrape off a dinner plate with my eyes open (once a baby takes over, disgusting becomes a habit).

Emptying a plughole is beyond me; the Hub has to do it.   In the kitchen, at least.  Because a strange thing happened when we became poor – I could not afford to visit the hairdresser ergo my hair grew ergo the bath plughole frequently becomes blocked.  I know how horrible it is to take hair out of a plughole but the Hub’s CFS/ME means that sometimes he is just not able to do the job and I can only take so many showers with scum floating around my ankles: I had to swallow my distaste and man up.

The Hub keeps a sharp knife in the bathroom and I learned to operate it with my eyes closed, and to mop up the hair with a bit of toilet paper.  In fact, I have learned to do it with my eyes open.  Like Samson, all along, my strength was in my hair.

My hair is strong these days: in recent weeks, even cutting it out every day has not unblocked the plughole; there is too much hair underneath, in the outlet pipe.  I asked the Hub several hundred times to do something but he is unwell and I didn’t want to nag, so yesterday I set to with the essential bathroom tool – the earbud.  I prodded and poked, stabbed and yanked, wielded and wefted, but nothing.  That old and stubborn hair refused to be set free.

Then I noticed…the plughole was attached to the outlet pipe by a screw.  I can unscrew a screw; I know the difference between a flathead and Phillips screwdriver (are you impressed?); I could see a flathead screwdriver was needed and the Hub keeps just such a tool in the bathroom (I’m afraid to ask why).  It was a simple matter to unscrew the plughole screw and remove the – thunk!  What was that?

That was the outlet pipe coming away from the plughole and taking up residency in another room, far away.  As far away as me from a tv screen showing an after-drinking session.  Erm, oops… was my first response.  My second response was to call the Hub, in the smallest voice I could manage, begging him not to yell at me and to fix my massive-but-I-wanted-to-save-you-a-job-mistake.

The Hub is my hero.  He dragged his pain-filled body upstairs, fixed the bath, removed the hair gunk, banned me from all future unscrewing without his permission in triplicate and carved into my ear, and didn’t yell at me.  He did tell me off about using earbuds near plugholes, however: did you know that they can fall through the gaps and block the outlet pipes so that Hubs might have to take the whole thing apart again?  The Hub is such a know-it-all.

I’ll misquote Danny Driscoll from Only Fools & Horses to state the handyman position as it stands in the Tilly Bud household from now on: when it comes to repairs, the Hub does the thinking; I don’t.

Hair Of The Dog

27 Jan

My last word on the subject of hair, I swear.

Hair today; none tomorrow.

My Final Word On Hair

26 Jan

I had not been swimming in ten years, and when I took it up again I thought I had better bathe and shave in preparation.  I was lying in the bath thinking I looked like Julia Roberts at the première of Notting Hill…  Let me clarify: I was lying in the bath thinking my armpits looked like Julia Roberts’ at the première of Notting Hill, and I was thinking about the photos in the newspaper.  Do you suppose she was lying in the bath that morning thinking, ‘I must remember to wax my bits…oh, what’s the point?  I’ll probably be upstaged by that Liz Hurley in some dress held together with sticky tape anyway; the only way I’ll be in the tabloids tomorrow is if I don’t wax my bits…hang on a minute…’ 

The moral of the story is: if you want your picture in the paper, don’t shave your armpits.

Or so I thought, but it’s been weeks now and I haven’t had a sniff. Not even from The Sunday People, and if they call I’m telling them I’d rather apply hot wax to my skin and pull it off with sticky paper. 

I thought this up in the bath but I have a dreadful memory, which is why I write everything down.  As I was in the bath I couldn’t write it down.  I use memory aids in the form of daft pictures in my head, which is why I imagined Julia Roberts using my wrinkle cream in our bathroom. It then occurred to me that this was completely ridiculous: as if Julia Roberts would be using my wrinkle cream! The only way I have it in is if some kind friend buys it as a birthday treat to remind me of how old I’m getting, and there’s no way I’m sharing it with Julia Roberts or anyone. Next time she sleeps over she can bring her own. 

You may think I’m a little crazy but you must realise that because of television we all feel we know famous people and can thus have imaginary conversations with them. They feel like our best friends, don’t they?

Sadly, this is not the case, as I discovered the day Julia applied for the Restraining Order and swore to the judge that the first time she ever met me was the day I politely offered to wax her bits.


More Hair

25 Jan

There were so many comments about hair yesterday, I thought I’d reblog an old post on that very subject.  I wrote it way back in 2009 so I doubt if any of you have read it.

I don’t like shopping; I never have, even when we had plenty of money. I am intimidated by bored and rude sales assistants – but at least they are better than hairdressers. Hairdressers are scarier than dentists; scarier than walking Stockport streets at night; scarier even than a doctor’s cold hands at a five-yearly check-up. They hold the key to my appearance in their hands, and I am powerless to stop them having their wicked way with me.

I once had a hair cut. I asked the hairdresser to bob my hair to the top of my shoulders, and give me a fringe. As she was combing my hair she remarked on my natural kink, saying that she had one and it was useless trying to fight it. She decided to give me some layers to make it manageable, and then she began cutting, and cutting, and cutting; a snip-snip here; a snip-snip there; here a snip, there a snip, everywhere a snip-snip….

I was in the chair for at least an hour but by the time I realised how short my hair was going to be, it was too late to protest. I wasn’t wearing my glasses and her friendly chat had lulled me into a state of torpor.  She bobbed me to the top of my neck, not my shoulders, so I had what’s known in the hairdressing trade as ‘short hair’.

The hairdresser later confessed to my Mum that she just couldn’t stop cutting, and I was sitting so quiet and accepting that she kept talking and cutting and cutting and talking and cutting in panic.

Tory Boy decided to grow his hair long when he was fifteen. I had to accept his decision but it drove me nuts, particularly as he is the only person I know who can wash his hair without cleaning it and dry his hair so that it remains wet.  Aren’t adverts misleading? As a child I thought only brunettes got dandruff because there were no blondes in the Head and Shoulders ad. I was astonished when Tory Boy got dandruff: my then scruffy blonde baby never rinsed his hair properly, of course.

Then there was the unexpected side-effect of his unplugging the hairdryer without switching it off. Every time I came to use it, it would explode into action as soon as I plugged it in, leaving me several heart attacks closer to a hospital. I tried telling him politely, and followed it up with a threatening email when that didn’t work; eventually I was forced to hide in the kitchen, jumping out on him whilst simultaneously turning on the hairdryer as he walked past, so he could have the hospital bed next to mine.  It didn’t work; he looked at me as if I was stupid and, when using the dryer, began exaggeratedly showing me he had switched it off, and then secretly switching it back on again to catch me out. My only choice was to ban him from hairdryer contact altogether and wake him an hour early so that his hair had time to dry naturally before school. Lack of sleep on my part meant that strategy lasted one day.

Hair plays a big part in my life. I wear a full body apron, no sleeves, and a tubee over my head when I cook, à la Yentl, because the favourite saying in our house during a meal isn’t, ‘That was delicious, Mum,’ or even, ‘Well, at least you tried,’ but, ‘I got the hair.’ My hair finds its way everywhere: the usual places like plug holes and bed, but also into all food (even when it’s stored in the fridge) and behind the toilet. I don’t know how it gets there; it’s not like I ever go behind the toilet to clean.

Even Christmas Dinner can be hair-perturbed: one year, things went better than usual in spite of my mild hysteria, first over cooking, then on putting my chair and all my weight on TB’s foot (screaming adolescents are not good for my nerves, no matter how much pain they claim to be in).  My hat would not fit on my head over my tied-back hair, and I pulled out my clip in a hissy fit, threw it on the floor and tried again to adjust my hat, which snapped back over my right ear, leaving it ringing, me sulking, and my family laughing.  That was the year the boys gave me thoughtful gifts: TB bought me a month’s supply of Maltesers and Spud bought me a Christmas apron, a collapsible washing bag, and a pair of nose hair clippers.

I truly believe that the hardest part of being a parent is letting my children go, which is rather ridiculous, given that I spend all my time preparing them for independence, for a time when they won’t need me. Having said that, there are mornings when I am more than happy to let some of my children go…like the morning when TB berated me for being cruel, wicked and unfair, for not only did I make him polish his shoes and apply his acne cream, I didn’t pass him the lemonade bottle last night when it was me who wanted him to tighten the top after pouring him a drink while he was drying his hair, thus making him late for school fourteen hours later and forcing him to rush.

I admit it: I am a dreadful mother; I thought so as I watched him through the window, strolling to the bus stop while fiddling with his mp3 player, hair doing a passable imitation of Jimi Hendrix in a wind tunnel, clearly determined not to miss that bus he was so late for. It was not the first time my teenage son had stressed me out: he once managed to turn a civil invitation to the cinema into an argument that left me rescinding the invitation and stabbing an innocent chicken sandwich. This is the child that I took shopping with me when he was nineteen: determined to one day rule the world (watch out teachers, you’re heading for a colony in Antarctica), he spent the time choosing alcohol supplies, riding the trolley, and out-Barry Scotting Barry Scott with his Cillit Bang advert impression.

A final word on hair things: the Hub once made pom-poms with our niece, helped her with her cross stitching, made bracelets, and beaded her hair, much to Spud’s disgust at such girlie activities in the man who claims to be his father.  He can cook, he can sew, he sings soprano to my alto…the boys claim he is the most feminine macho man they know.  Twenty-one years of teaching our sons male-female equality and they still think cooking is women’s work.  I don’t know why: never in their lives have I served them anything edible.

A last word on the Hub: when we were courting in our teens, I sat with my cropped head and watched his mother plait his pony tail, muttering all the while, ‘I expected to do this for me daughters but not for me son!’ No wonder he never objected when the gerbils groomed his moustache. And don’t start feeling sorry for him because I’m giving away his secrets: he likes to be kept on his toes by me, believing contrariety is the spice of wife.



21 Nov

Before I award this week’s CoWAbunger, I have to ask you not to inundate me with outraged comments and hate mail.  

I have gone against the habit of a lifetime and…accepted a compliment

I know, I know!  What was I thinking?  All of you good, self-restrained commenters who never say anything nice to or about me must be furious.  Those of you with less self-restraint who let slip the odd nice remark which I studiously ignore must be seething.

I’m sorry; I couldn’t help myself.  I’m weak, I know, but she hit me on my Achilles scalp:

  I don’t think it is possible to not love France. Viv is tinier than I had thought, and your hair is beautiful, Tilly!  cindy

Here is the photo which inspired her sincere but factually incorrect compliment on my post France, Day 4:

I have dreadful hair; not manky like my teeth, but thin and mousey and flyaway.  My plaits look like drab friendship bracelets; when my hair is short I look like a boy; when it’s long I have to tie it back because the static electric shocks to the lips really hurt.  My family take turns thanking me for the hair in their food, despite tie backs and a head covering when I prepare meals.  I have never, ever been complimented on my hair in my entire life.  Is it any wonder I caved?

Thank you, Cindy, for making my day.  Hair is your award:

And have another one for being nice about France:


Go and visit Cindy at her blog, The Only Cin; especially if you love good food.

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