Different Shades Of The Same Girl

Today I got to thinking about the importance and influence of hair colour on one's life. This was triggered by an article that I read in last month's (I think) British Elle. The article was written by a woman who dyed her hair from blonde to brunette. She went on to describe that she was happy because she no longer looked trashy in leopard print but builders stopped wolf-whistling at her so not all was good in brunette city.
At first I thought 'How dramatic' but after some consideration I realised how much my own hair colour affects me. I am naturally dark blonde and for about the past three years have been getting blonde champagne blonde high lights all over which brings me closer to the hair colour I actually desire (like Natasha Poly's) but don't have the guts to get. Bleaching my entire hair is a tad extreme for me. I love my hair that way and it's not because 'blondes have more fun' but because in my mind, I am supposed to be blonde therefore I feel my most comfortable and confident at that shade.

It is a hassle to keep up with all the highlights, it takes about three hours every eight weeks and it takes quite a bit of money. Money has to be spent on the actual hairdressing as well as products because peroxide doesn't make hair pretty. So, at the end of June, I marched into Superdrug and picked up two boxes of light brown hair dye. I applied it the following evening. That was it, years of being blonde was erased by twenty minutes of questionable hair dye. I looked in he mirror and saw a stranger. I looked paler but didn't mind it. The hair looked good but I felt strange. The next day I wore my leopard print jumpsuit together with my newly brown hair (Karlie Kloss shade) and maybe by coincidence didn't attract as much attention as I usually do. You see, that makes me sounds like I'm attention seeking. That's not it, it was just an indication that I was now someone else. Anyone but me.

The brown washed off slowly revealing small traces of my highlights. I had the choice of making an appointment with my hairdresser or grabbing another box of dye. I went shopping. I looked to Casting Creme Gloss to find me a suitable shade and came across 'Sweet Honey'. It promised to bring out my eyes and add golden tones to my hair. The shade itself could be described as golden blonde so I grabbed that and ran home. There's a strange kind of excitement attached to changing one's hair colour and if you do it yourself, an element of danger too. I should tell you that as I type this, I have kind of gingery hair colour a la Vlada which was unexpected. The 'Sweet Honey' did not turn out as expected and yet again, I wasn't disappointed since my skin suits the colour and my green eyes look yet greener.

Why is it then that I want to call my hair dresser, begging for an appointment to get a full head of blonde highlights? It has to be a strange psychological attachment that I have to my old hair colour, to my old character. Sure, I may be over thinking the whole hair colour thing but I am free to do so. The moral of this story is two-fold: get your hair done professionally and really think before doing so.


The Issue Of Size, Yes, Really

This isn't news to anybody but I was really angered by it last week hence the blogpost even thought I've pretty much abandoned my blog. Clothes shopping is usually fun, sometimes stressful and sometimes downright frustrating. This is made possible by the useless numbers stores print on their labels. I shall tell you a story. I wear size 8-10 which translates to 34-36 or a 'S'. I thought that this meant when I walk into a store, I can consult those indicators, buy and wear garments. Now, tops and dresses aren't really the offenders here. Trousers on the other hand are pure hell. I HATE YOU. Last week I ordered myself a pair of floral print skinny jeans from Miss Selfridge and went for my usual size 10 since that's the size I am in Topshop and they're sister companies, so you know, there's logic there. My jeans arrive and put them on only to realise that there's no way they're zipping up. Returned. Got a size 12. All is now good. A sale at United Colours of Benetton (not my usual shopping spot but it's a sale) prompted me to purchase a pair of raspberry coloured jeans. They looked quite small in store so I went for a 38 which is a 12 (not my actual size). Tried them on at home to find that getting them past my thighs is a problem. Returned. Actually, exchanged for a 42 and that's the UK equivalent of a size 16... I can continue but you will get bored. Sizes in stores are terrible and maybe that explains why I mostly buy my trousers from H&M who have been the only store to be consistent with sizing regardless of style. In Dorothy Perkins I have to get a size 8 because they're cut larger and Zara manages to make me feel constantly fat with an M feeling very snug around my hips. The point to all this is that fashion should be a tool to make you feel good about yourself. Sometimes I like to buy something pretty just because I'm feeling down however the effect is reversed when I have to buy a larger size. This isn't particularly about one size being 'fat' as opposed to another but it's not healthy for one's psyche. I am a certain size and would like to wear that size. Sure, cut out the label and all that, it sticks in your mind. I had a theory that perhaps stores like Zara and Benetton don't want certain sizes shopping in their stores and that's why their range is so limited. We all know that designers are 'Sizeist' and they're free to be so I guess. The high street cannot afford to do this because of their customer demographic and trust me I will think twice before buying trousers from Benetton ever again.


And What Do You Know?

Hello? Is anyone actually there? Hello?!?! Please....Anyone? I'm being a tad dramatic but after such a long break from blogging I don't actually expect anyone to still care about my writing. I've been on a strange fashion lull, that's not to say that I've avoided fashion magazines or shops, I just haven't felt any real pull towards it. Collections floated by me and I couldn't care less. It was strange. However, my Vogue (British) arrived in the mail today. Once again, no excitement swept over me as I glanced at its slightly bland cover albeit with the lovely Freja on it. I started turning the pages and something magical started happening, as if all the colours and pretty metaphors lifted off the page and I inhaled them causing a fashion revolution inside my brain. I genuinely felt inspired as I turned the glossy pages and witnessed the new season take shape before my eyes.
I wanted to start with a post on the Gucci pre-fall campaign. That image just makes me want to live it, it's probably one of the only times I've really understood what the phrase 'buying into the lifestyle' means. The scene is so idyllic with the lounging beauties, sleek clothes, vintage car and elegant man. Clearly, this is as far removed from reality as possible, because lying on a car cannot be that comfortable and yet somehow, maybe if I purchased that dress I could live like that too? Dreaming is healthy, I won't hear anything otherwise.