This is what you spent my inheritance on?

Nah, I kid. When global warming really kicks in, the boat builder will be king and this will be worth every penny. My dad has been in Lyme Regis, in the south of England, for the last year learning how to build boats, and last week they had the big boat launch. He's the guy about halfway through waving from the passenger end of the boat.

Boat Launch, Lyme Regis, June 2011 from Fraser McGruer on Vimeo.

We're so proud. Nice work, you crazy old coot.

Updated Doings

So, here's how things stand at the moment;

Job
Ain't got one. I was on a four month contract at The Job Which Shall Not Be Named, and I was fully expecting to get a variation of 'don't let the door hit your arse on the way out!' on my last day. So imagine my complete and utter bafflement when I was asked by my boss to stay on. Huh. Maybe I wasn't the world's most hilariously underqualified and useless employee. Would have been nice if someone had mentioned that to me at some point while I was still employed there - that may have stopped my from hiding in the toilet in tears, convinced at my own uselessness, on what got to be an almost daily basis.

However, I truly despised that job, so rather than deigning to accept the offer I told my boss to cram it with walnuts, and I flounced out the door, pausing only to give him the finger and dispense a few choice insults amongst my former colleagues. I'm kidding of course. Though there was a small amount of flouncing. What I did do was go to the pub with D and the Hair Hamster, and get nicely sozzled. We had a very long, very boozy lunch, during which we cackled immoderately and were very bitchy. Then we went back to the office and spent the rest of the afternoon looking at this website and giggling like the drunken idiots we are;

(click the picture for more)

I think my ex-boss was genuinely surprised that I didn't want to stay, but I don't think I could have taken another day of it. It wasn't a bad job, and it wasn't especially difficult, but Heavens to Betsy it was tedious. I ended up so utterly stressed out by trying to fill the painful hours between 9 and 5 that I literally could not eat during the day. I always thought people who claimed to be too busy or stressed to eat were full of crap, because I pretty much live for food. But for the last four months I have been getting by on toast for breakfast and crisps and wine for dinner. I haven't started looking for another job yet, though I have started sorting out my resume today, and I plan to start the job hunt over the next few days.

Hair
Either it's slowing down, or I'm freaking out about it less, but either way I'm feeling better about the hair thing. I went to the doctor to get checked out, and he couldn't think of any good reason why I should be losing my hair, so he tested me for everything - 'I am throwing the book at you, young lady' were his exact words. I got my results, and everything is normal. Better than normal. I'm practically the bionic freaking woman, especially considering how appalling my diet has been lately, and that I haven't eaten meat in six months and have a more less vegan diet these days. Iron - awesome, cholesterol and blood pressure - exemplary, hormones, thyroid, vitamin levels - normal, normal, normal. Huzzah!

But doctor, why oh why is my hair falling out? His reply was '....ummm....stress? Yeah, probably just stress.' Because my hormone levels are normal he's pretty certain that it's not female pattern baldness - he thinks it's telogen effluvium, and he said that things could be back to normal within a year or so. Which seems like a very, very long time when handfuls of hair are falling out everyday, but it feels a lot better to be able to put a name to what's going on. The problem is that one of the triggers for telogen effluvium is stress. Guess what makes you stressed? Your hair falling out! Which causes more hair to fall out and so on ad absurdium. So I'm basically just trying to get myself back on track now. I'm having a sober month, I'm eating veggies til they come out my ears* and walking every day, and I'm starting to realise how tightly wound I have been lately. I was reading a book review the other day, and this quote from the book really struck me;

I was nothing but tension. . . . I brushed my teeth ferociously, as if I wanted to file them down. I yanked on my socks as if determined to thrust my toes right through them. . . . When I pushed a command button, I did so as if it was my personal strength that must send the elevator to the sixth floor, or raise the door of the garage. While I shaved I tensed my jaw, while I read I tensed my throat, while I ate (too fast) I tensed my forehead, while I talked I tensed my shoulders, while I listened I tensed my neck, while I drove I tensed everything.

That could be me he's describing - I had a tiny panic attack in the pub the other night, which hasn't happened in years, and my shoulders have been hovering around the level of my ears for weeks now. So the plan for the immediate future is to calm - the - fuck - down and get myself together (by the way, don't think I'm not aware of how appallingly middle class and privileged my problems are, because I know that 'I'm feeling a bit stressed' is pretty much the epitome of a first world problem, but I'm not going to apologise for that). To whit and thusly, I will be reading Game of Thrones, practising my Spanish grammar (there's something unexpectedly soothing about the mindlessness of conjugating**) and spending a lot of time pottering about in the kitchen.

OK, so that's the updated version of things at the moment. I have a story about a BBQ, and another one about seagulls and crazy ladies, both of which I will get to soon. Until then, you must wait with bated breath - can you stand the excitement!?

*which may point to a more serious medical problem than that of my hair falling out
**that's what she said

Ping pong helps me ignore the caffeine-induced voices in my head

What did you do today? Did you go to a jewellery supply shop and help pick out a soldering iron, and then play ping pong in what was possibly an art installation? Huh. That's a coincidence.

To explain. Since Monday, my boss has been saying to me in an ominous sort of way 'we need to talk about your progress'. The progress meeting was initially scheduled for 10a.m. Monday morning. Then it got pushed back to Monday afternoon. Then Tuesday morning, then Tuesday afternoon, and so on and so forth until this afternoon (Thursday) when the meeting finally happened. It was less of a 'let's all tell Tash how terrible she is at her job' affair than I had thought it was going to be, but I'll get to that. The point is, for the last four days I have been working myself into a state of COMPLETE AND UTTER TERROR that I was going to get shouted at. Because, and I'll let you in on a tiny little secret here... I'm terrible at my job. Like, painfully bad. I also hate it with a passion, which goes a long way to explaining why I'm so bad at it. The only thing that stops me from completely checking out and just playing Minesweeper and googling pictures of baby dormice all day is that my fear of getting into trouble slightly outweighs my sense of miserable apathy towards my work.

By this morning, I was a jibbering mess. I just wanted to get the shouting at over and done with. I drank a giant coffee, then went and got a second giant coffee because someone asked me to go to the coffee shop with them, so by midday I was a jumble of nerves and anticipation, and hallucinating slightly from all the caffeine (that's a thing, it's not just me being melodramatic).

L, my work buddy (also known as the Hair Hamster) noticed that I was verging tears and/ or magical laughter and asked me to go on an outing with her so she could spend her birthday money. We went first to a jewellery supply store, where she spent an inordinate amount of time taking to a man about soldering irons. While waiting for her I checked out the sale table, which is always dangerous, even when there is nothing there that I could conceivably want or need. Nevertheless. It took a bit of work to convince myself that I do not really need an economy pack of white cotton gloves (it was only $5 for 50 - I'm sure I could have found a use for them) or a jewellery display case in the shape of a book, just because it was half price.

Then we went to Gaffa, which is absolutely lovely, and you really have to go there if you're in Sydney. It's a tiny private art gallery split over two levels of an old office building in Clarence St., and it shows very small collections from an eclectic bunch of artists, though the focus tends to be on jewellery. I saw some absolutely stunning pieces, and I'm definitely going to go back when I've saved up my pocket money.

Kyoko Hashimoto

Momoko Hatano

There was an installation composed of a sculpture a little man hunched up in the middle of a room swathed in black cloth, which visitors to the gallery were encouraged to write their sad thoughts on. L was all for drawing a picture of a penis, because she is just a simple being, but I convinced her to write 'I am worried that I will never feel happiness' (geddit? hahahaha) instead, because I am just as immature as her, but, as I said above, more scared of getting in trouble. Then we went downstairs to the cafe, and there was a little glassed in room off to one side with a ping pong table in it. So we played some ping pong. A few people stopped to watch us, which made us paranoid that it was actually an art installation that we were defiling, but no one shouted at us, so it was either an interactive piece, or it was just a ping pong table.

By this stage I was feeling much better, so we headed back to the office, just in time for the meeting. My boss went round the table. The advertising manager got told off a tiny bit. Then the online editor got a little bit of a talking to. Then came my turn. I had to explain myself, which I did by shrugging, letting my bottom lip wobble a little bit, and saying 'ummm, I don't know. I'm sorry'. There was a moment of tension... and the conversation moved on. And that was it. I mean, I definitely got the feeling that I am not going to walk out of this job with a glowing recommendation, but I also didn't actually get told off, so I'm putting the progress meeting outcome in the positive column for today. Only just, but still.

What else.

Oh yes, my hair is still falling out with reckless abandon, but either I've come to accept it, or I am in denial about it, in which case there is almost certainly some horrible emotional outburst in the offing when I finally come to deal with it. I think it's the former, though. I've been looking at other women's hair a lot over the last couple of days (in a totally non creepy way), and I've noticed lots and lots of women my age with partings that are slightly too wide and patchy, or who have thin or even bald patches on the back of their heads, or with sparse patches around the temples, and I feel much better. I have also made an appointment to get my hair cut next week - I've realised that the thing that is freaking me out more than anything else is that I have totally lost control over what my hair does, and I am - it may shock you to learn - quite the control freak. I'm hoping that if I go and get a style more flattering to my hair-lite situation, it will make me feel slightly more in control, and stop me from completely losing my mind.

And that's more or less it for now. I've got an evening entirely to myself for once, so I'm indulging in a dinner of beer and crisps, and later I will eat a banana paddle pop. I will also watch last night's First Tuesday Bookclub, and stroke the screen tenderly every time Jennifer Byrne speaks, because I love her and I want to be her. OK, that last thing was a bit creepy, but my reasons for loving her have nothing to do with her hair, so the creepiness is mitigated a tiny bit. 

I wore high heels for this?

Last weekend we went to a Gala Banquet Dinner Thing at Jo's uni, because he is the President of the Exchange Club, which makes me the First Lady of the Exchange Club*, which means I had to fulfill my duties by attending and smiling at people. That's how we do things in the political world. I may be an opinionated, intelligent, high powered career woman in my own right, but whether my husband achieves success, or cheats on me and fathers a love child, my job is to smile and stand by him.** In this picture I am failing in at least one of those requirements.

So I played the dutiful political wife, in spite of the fact that I had just lost my dog, my aunt, and a chunk of my hair within the preceding twenty-four hours. I thought that maybe going out and talking to actual people would cheer me up, when in fact it meant that I spent four hours gritting my teeth and necking cheap champagne in an effort not to start weeping into the (very tasteful) table arrangements.

Actually, it wasn't that bad. Little Lord Frenchelroy and his Deutsche Dame had had a bit of a tiff, so we took refuge in each other's sulkiness and sat in the corner drinking heavily for a while. Then, hooray, hooray! my snob buddy The Thin White Duke turned up, and we had a lovely time dissecting the latest episode of Game of Thrones and discussing Proust, because that's how we roll when we get together. High brow or low brow, but nothing in between.

After that it all gets a bit blurry. I smoked a Cuban cigar with Frenchelroy (because I am a fucking idiot and never learn that smoking cigars when I'm drunk will not end well). I spoke absolutely execrable Spanish to a girl from Pamplona, who turned to Jo and told him that, while his Spanish is very good, mine is utterly incomprehensible. To be fair, this was after four hours of drinking motivated by utter misery and social awkwardness, I think I'm usually a bit less... slurry. I met a guy from Denmark who speaks like the Swedish Chef. An entirely different, and very drunk, Spanish person screamed puta tu madre at me for reasons that seem to have more to do with the fact that the bar had just closed than anything in particular I had done. He then stole a water jug from the restaurant, and later confessed to having been sick in it in the cab on the way home, so I didn't take his suggestion about what I should do to my mother personally.

Then the young folk moved on to a bar, and Jo and I went to our hotel. What's that? Oh, that's right, we stayed in a hotel because we like to live the high life. Wait, did I say hotel? I meant hostel. An absurdly tiny room in a fire hazard of a hostel. A hostel in which they seemed to think it was appropriate to pipe loud music into our room at 3a.m. So not especially glam. 

And that's about it. Oh, and I saw this girl's nipples, but then so did everyone else in the room, so there's not much to tell there. Good times.

*I think I've about used up my quota of Needlessly Capitalised words for this post in that first sentence alone.

** For the record, to the best of my knowledge Jo hasn't been cheating on me with our live-in au pair and fathering bastards. For one thing, we don't have children, so hence no au pair for him to cheat with - the day he suggests we get an au pair, I'll know to be suspicious.

Who likes hairy hippies, anyway?

The hair situation continues unabated. I'm shedding hair like a dog in summer - I'm literally leaving little trails behind me everywhere I go. I have finally stopped standing in front of the mirror, sobbing and keening hysterically to the tune of Hair, but I'm still freaking out a bit. However. I have been to the doctor. I have been probed in all sorts of unpleasant ways (including one ultrasound that, let's just say, the gentlemen in the room will never have to undergo. It was pretty awful, and the worst part of it is that the ultrasound technician didn't even buy me dinner first HAHA! No, in all seriousness, I actually came out in tears), and it looks as if I am basically in fairly robust health. The doctor is pretty sure it isn't female pattern baldness, mainly because the hair is falling out from all over and not just from the crown, which is what would usually happen if I was just getting screwed by my genes.

So. The conclusion appears to be that I am suffering from stress. Nice one, Tash. I have in the past allowed my anxiety to induce migraines, crying jags and nausea, but this is the first time I have been so wound up that things have started to fall off. The upside is that it should mean that my hair will start to grow in as normal again in a few months, so I just have to suck it up and deal with it until then.

But because I am someone who has never had any trouble seeing the cloud around the silver lining, I have started to investigate the wigular opportunities available. I mean, chances are this will all sort itself out in a few months, but if it doesn't I want to be prepared*. Now then. There are these people, who look lovely - you'd get a cup of tea, and probably a homemade biscuit with those guys, and I think if worst comes to worst, they'll be my first port of call. There are also some people who look downright creepy.

There's a company that advertises 'REAL HUMAN HAIR', and which gives all their wig styles names, giving entries that read; 'JANE HUMAN', 'MEGAN HUMAN' and 'LIZ HUMAN', which makes me uncomfortable. I don't think I want to be reminded that I'm wearing someone else's hair. I also would never want to be classified as 'NATASHA HUMAN', as if I need it to be pointed out that I am.

The same website also offers the following wig care tips;

How to Care for your Wigs and Hairpieces.

 Taking care of your wig or hairpiece is extremely important. With the proper care and cleaning your wig will look great and will last longer. You may not be able to control the different environments your wig is exposed to each day but proper care will help overcome any exposure to unfavorable conditions

1) Fill a large bowl with enough cool to lukewarm water to fully immerse your wig. Don't use hot water or it will remove body and may damage fibre.

2) Dissolve approximately one tablespoon of wig cleaner or shampoo, along with one tablespoon of baking soda. Swish & swirl your wig around in solution.
If the front of wig or cap has makeup on it, make a paste of baking soda and shampoo and gently scrub with an old toothbrush until clean. Baking soda acts as a cleaning booster and will usually cut though the heaviest makeup or styling product residue in the hair or on the cap.

3) Rinse your wig in plenty of cool to cold water, do it 3 or 4 times to make sure the shampoo is completely rinsed out.

4) Rinse your large bowl out and refill it with fresh water. Dissolve one or two tablespoons of conditioner in water. Swish & swirl your wig around then work the mixture throughout your wig. Do not rinse. Lay your wig on a towel and pat it dry with another towel or paper towel to remove excess moisture.

5) Place onto a wig stand and let it dry.

6) When the piece is dry, comb it out gently layer by layer usually starting at the bottom and work your way up.

****Please do not comb Curly pieces****

Which is just such a poignant image that I started crying again.

Then there's this one, which is how I've always wanted my hair to look. I might buy it even if my hair doesn't fall out. Or I could just get a job as a children's entertainer and get a bunch of clown wigs. 

Eh. I'm really have a shitty time with all of this. Everyone has been so lovely and supportive, in their own ways. Jo has told me he'll always love me, even if I'm bald. But he refuses to grow his hair long to make me a wig, because apparently it would be creepy for us to have the same hair. Whatever. Why isn't it creepy when we wear matching outfits then, Jo? Well?

When I told my mum I thought my hair was falling out she burst into tears. She wailed 'you've got your Grandmother's hair!'**. Then she cried for a few minutes. Then she said, very intensely, 'don't you worry, we're going to get you the best wig money can buy.' Then she cried again. That did not make me feel better, but I know her heart was in the right place. 

Various other people have offered advice, reassurance, chutneys and jokes, all of which have been been gratefully accepted, though no one can top L, my work buddy, who has taken to referring to me as 'that thin haired freak'. But with love. So it's OK. I think. 

I'm trying my darndest not to think about it. Que sera sera, and all that. But writing about it really does make me feel better, so expect to see more follicular fear, more coiffure qualms, and more bouffant bathos.

*The odd thing is that I know a girl whose hair grows like bamboo, so she grows it long and then cuts it off and donates it to wigmakers. She's a lovely person, but I really hope I don't end up wearing her hair. It's a bit too Silence of the Lambs for me. 

** And it wasn't that great when she had it, boom boom.