It should have been a week of transformations.
First, the dye-pot deed on Sunday.
Nice ’n’ Easy may be the name, and mony’s the time I used it in my younger incarnation as a brunette. But I haven’t DIY-dyed in donkeys so I’d a case o’ the jitters.
I dreaded my heidie turning out darker than it said on the tin. Instead of medium honey blonde, major stinky inky?
Yet I wasn’t feartie enough to carry out that scalp test. Daft really since me and my quine are both on the inherited allergic side.
Two days after dying her locks deep brown, she offskied to a girlie weekend in Tenerife, sunbathed all day, then her peer napper inflated to a football. Thanks-be her mates rushed her to a doc nearby.
I also landed in Casualty when I used a new cheapo lipstick, and took the office by storm when my mooth suddenly resembled a couple of Good Year tyres.
However, sod the allergy, I set to work. Unable to reach or see the badger stripes doon the back, and impatient to get it done, I just ladled on the milky-looking mixture and rubbed it in like shampoo.
How long? Just to cover grey 20 minutes. All-over plus 10. No more than 35. Couldn’t decide. Wait and see. Nae nippiness. Phew.
Decided to leave for 25, resisting the temptation to keek in the mirror lest what was milky had inkied.
After rinsing, didn’t look too drastic. After drying, nae drastic ava’.
In fact, you could hardly spot the difference from the way I was.
Certainly more Golden Girl than Macbeth witch, but I’ve a feelin’ in my watter that, after a couple of shampoos, I’ll be back at my cauldron again.
The other transformation was to be my weight, after a blast from the doc last week.
The pal I’m supposed to be going to Mallorca with in September offered to do a sort of Weightwatchers with me. We’d have a weigh-in, then Messenger each other every day what we’d eaten, before a weigh-out a week later. Great stuff.
Except I suspect I might be left on my ownio pretty damn soon. She’s only a pucklie pounds overweight – if that – and I want to lose at least two stone.
Plus she’s much fitter than me and skips along her daily 50-minute walk, while I take almost that long to pech and toil roon the block, aided by my trusty ski pole.
Yesterday, I was black-affronted to be overtaken by a wifie with one of those shopping zimmers!
It deffo helps to see what she’s been nibbling at, shaming me into cutting carbs, halving portions and zapping snacks. She also suggested drinking loadsa water during the day in little sips.
I only remembered about it around 5pm, so glugged all evening. Turned my bladder into gushing Niagara, up a-tiddlin’ every hour during the night.
Lo, it came to our weigh-out last Monday. She’s lost three pounds (lordie knows from where).
Trouble is, my scales are as old as my menopause – about 30 years ago.
Hugely heavy (like their owner) wooden-framed monsters, normally stashed, to be forgotten, at the back of a cupboard.
Every time I step on them they give a different reading. I’ve either put on a stone – or lost the equivalent of a leg. Helpful.
Eventually I declared masellie five pounds lighter. (All of which, I suspect, was water-falled oot that Sleepless in Slimming night).
So no huge transformations (yet) to heid or body. But one thing’s for sure: I’ve been into Amazon for new scales.
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