The only thing I regret about 2015 is not sorting out the three hairs on my chin. I can’t remember when they sprouted but they are dark and boingy and not something any smooth-faced person wants anywhere near her chops. When we lived in California I went to a laser doctor who promised smooth baby-bottom results. As soon as I entered his rooms I suspected doctor was a euphemism and once he started showing me his home-made light saber collection I was even more suspicious.
Was he going to light saber off my hairs or my entire face?
He had successfully removed the dark, curly hairs from his own arm so I gave it whirl.
Now the three hairs bother me, kind of like the mildly sore molar in my mouth, but when it comes to self-improvement I often never get round to it. Or perhaps, as my friend Choppy says, we just have ridiculous expectations.
One day I would like to be a marvellous cook so that when my children’s friends come over my pancakes are more than something to practice their jousting with.
I want to know how to fix drains and understand the septic system but it’s like I have an allergy to anything under the Department of Maintenance. The mere thought starts me day-dreaming of a glass of red wine. In Paris.
Our house could be radical if we did it up – we live in two octagons! – but I spend hours re-writing chapters of my book and interviewing people for FABIK rather than trolling home decorating sites. Right now I am doing it again, writing stuff here while our house sighs around me.
Whenever I express frustrations to my mother about my ‘not very good at domestic shitness (NVGADS)’—yes it’s a syndrome—she says, “Well, you made your choices; you had a lot of adventures in your 30’s.” That’s good mothering right there – little dig wrapped in love. She knows me well.
My head’s been full of dreams and ideas and words for years, not recipes and paint charts and guttering systems. Now that I’m a grown up (apparently) and a mother (last time I checked), I know my NVGADS is annoying but I don’t know how to not be like this.
As Yoda said, “Be or not be; there is no maybe.”
Oh no, scrap that. He didn’t say that. He said, “Do or do not, there is no try.”
He probably also said, “Doctor with light saber trust you should not!”
My Great Aunt Hazel, who is nearly as wise as Yoda and also has hairs on her chin, told me once, “The tragedy of getting old is that you still feel 28 in your head.”
Our bodies age but we don’t, not fundamentally. I’m still that 28-year-girl who wants to live in Paris, find ancient ruins of Greek goddesses, loves flirting, can’t cook and is scared of horses and chickens. I’m still messy and not very practical and a bit late, but also utterly enthusiastic and optimistic and full of hell yeah! Just like I’ve always been.
I’ve accepted that in my lifetime I probably won’t live in Paris with a man called Marcel. C’est la vie. Or be an archaeologist or champion equestrian.
Those dreams are gone.
I won’t fix drains.
I will stay as I am.
Little bit annoying.
But writing all the same.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll tackle those hairs.
Cherry New Year everyone, especially to The Dimple, who, thankfully knows how to fix everything and puts up with my bristly dreams more than anyone.