27th June: New hair, new me

There was a spell in my late teens when my hair was short and pink but since then it’s been, give or take a few inches, long and dark. With my new life about to unfold I feel in need of a radical change.  Rather than waking up and seeing my mother in the mirror each morning, (no offence mum, or rather, not much offence) I want to see Gwyneth Paltrow or Ola Jordan smiling back at me. This is of course a complete delusion as a change from brunette to blonde is not a face-lift, body-transplant or a million-dollar current account.  Never mind reality, this morning I’m going to the hairdressers to ask for the impossible.

“I’d like about six inches off and to be a few mixed shades of blonde.”

“Blonde?”

“Yes, some light-biscuit and some platinum.”

“Okay - but you don’t want to be too radical do you?” Kelly glances around the salon. “You wouldn’t want to be that blonde would you?” She points to Zoe.

“Yes, that would be great.”  Wow. I will look like Debbie Harry in her prime.

While Kelly is tinting, wrapping, chopping and telling me about her false nails and her family I tell her about my upcoming adventure and the one night I’d slept in the car with Georgie.

For three consecutive years when Georgie was seven, eight and nine she and I drove south. Twice was to the Cote d’Azur and once was to Venice.  We would usually alternate the en route accommodation with a night of camping followed by a night in a hotel.  One year we arrived in Nice on a bank holiday weekend and had no accommodation booked. It was due to be our hotel night. We would have been pleased with a stable but not even that was proffered. I continued to drive further east on the panoramic coast road and soon we were in Monaco territory.  Lo and behold there was a beautiful hotel overlooking the bay. Despite the “Non”, “Non” and “Absolutement non,” track record in hotel receptions so far, I still had a dream that there would be a “Oui Madame” or even better, a “Oui Mademoiselle.”  I drove into the hotel’s smart drive and an attendant came over. I used my best grade C, O-level French.

“Avez vous un chambre pour deux personnes s’il vous plait?”

“Ah oui.”  Oui? Oui? Georgie and I beamed at each other as though Daniel Craig, a creature of mutual admiration, had appeared from the sea with a tray of ice cream sundaes. The attendant must have somehow deduced that we weren’t French and asked in perfect English for my keys so he could park the car. Yes, we were officially on the set of Pretty Woman pulling up at The Beverly Wiltshire. I glanced at the back seat. We had a tent, sleeping bags and a couple of bucket loads of sand minus the buckets, a trio of which this hotel was undoubtedly unfamiliar. As the manager appeared on the drive, luckily, for once, my brain engaged.  “How much is the room please?”

“Seven hundred and ninety-five euros. It’s a junior suite.”  For one night. It was also nine o’clock. Nine in the evening. Not that ‘oui’ was thinkable but we wouldn’t even have time to swoon, swim, be massaged, play a flirty game of late night dominoes with Barack Obama and get stuck in a lift with Liam Nielson, presuming that they were residents. I was also earning £21,000 as a Newly Qualified Teacher. I shook my head and smiled and turned the car around.

As we left, the hotel manager beckoned us over.  He even looked just like the lovely manager at The Beverly Wiltshire.  He leant forward.  “How much can you afford?”

“Err, two hundred euros?” I could not afford two hundred euros.  Fortunately, he shook his head and smiled.  In the end, sleeping in the car, a Renault Megane was the only option. We parked up against the long wall of a gargantuan house where there was a party taking place. Super models were flirting with Barack and Liam and we were trying to sleep, nestled near the ditch behind the floodlit tennis courts. At three a.m. a couple of policeman tapped on the window to check we were okay.  All was fine, just bring us a pina colada and a sex on the beach.

As for today’s treat in the hairdressers, I will not be mistaken for Debbie Harry.  More likely, Worzel Gummidge.