Beauty School dropout

 

Bless me Crystal (my hairdresser), for I have sinned.

 

It’s been 8 months (at least) since my last haircut.

 

Yes, I could have gone to ‘Sue at site 137’ back in Perth for a $12 special, but I’m tight, reasonably vain, & Sue is not you.

 

Instead I preferred to hack away indiscriminately at my own split ends… & my bangs… & my chin hairs.

I’m sure I’ve done such a good job & I’m totally confident no one will notice.

 

Until my next haircut.

 

I’ve been going grey since I was 17.

 

That’s cool. Some people look awesome in silver.

 

My grey hair, however, makes me look like a corpse.

 

I was sick of worrying that Pepe le Pew was going to come at me from behind, so I splashed out 15 big ones, got my usual colour, & did my very best not to get it all over the 3 Pubes rated sink at Karrinyup Waters Resort, Gwellup.

 

Thank Christ they were little, private ensuite bathrooms.

 

I smothered the grey roots but you know I’m too impatient to wait the required 15 minutes before refreshing the rest of my dead head, so the colour build up on the ends could be quite impressive by the end of this trip.

 

That was over 3 months ago.

 

The grey hairs are back. Longer & more pube-like than ever.

 

With a box of hair dye in my back pocket, I had intended to return myself from The Dead & tackle them them when we got to Onslow.

 

But now I’m not so sure.

 

I’m thinking of going grey. Very ungracefully.

 

Just for a bit.

 

To see what it’s like.

 

I haven’t seen my natural hair colour since 1995.

 

How bad can it be?

 

Don’t answer that.

 

 

It’s hard maintaining a beauty regime ever on the road.

You barely ever see the same people twice & there’s not that many mirrors around so you tend to not give too much of a toss about how you look.

 

Or how many weeks days in a row you wear the same clothes.

 

As long as my pits don’t stink & my toenails don’t clip on the ground when I walk, I’m generally happy.

 

That said, now that we’re staying put for the school term, something really should be done about the state of me.

 

The eyebrows? …Ugh!

 

The toe nails? …Erck!

 

My  heels? …Eeeeewww! They look like they belong to some 68 year old, diabetic truck driver named Trevor.

There isn’t a pumice stone (or angle grinder) in the world that would be big enough to tackle them. I could choke an entire tank of those little, Thai foot-eating fish.

 

The bikini line? …What bikini line? There is no actual ‘line’ it just blends with the rest.

A lot like this…

At least it means my sideburns don’t stand out as much.

 

And sure, we’ve been to a lot of spectacular places but too may bright white beaches & sunny days mean a whole lot of squinting.

24/7 with my kids & fisherman husband means a whole lot of frowning.

Only injected botulinum toxin (or a complete mental breakdown) will have any effect on these ravine-sized face creases.

 

All that time in the sun has a serious effect on the old décolletage too or, as they call it in the bizz, your “dec”. Ask anyone who works for Ella Bache & they’ll tell you the importance of a sun cream & moisturising regime for your “dec”.

 

(Side note: I would never refer to my décolletage as my “dec”. It hardly qualifies. It’s more like a very small patio. And even that’s stretching the truth.)

 

I have tried though.

 

Not once have I been sunburnt. But the continuous sun exposure has left my small patio feeling like one of those tanned kangaroo scrotum purses & looking very similar. Anymore sun exposure & I’m likely to come back looking like this…

 

I really should start wearing turtlenecks.

 

 

Unusually for me, I have a tan at the moment. I call it “Whiter Shade of Pale”. With extra freckles.

 

My skin in general has been up to shit thanks to all that sun cream I have to wear & the fact that I have to bathe in my own filth that bucket. It’s disgusting feeling greasy & pimply all the time. Kind of like being back in high school.

 

And I don’t know what it is, all this fresh air, good livin’, or an early onset of menopause, but what is WITH all these hairs sprouting out of my face!?

 

It’ll take some sort of magic to clean this mess up.

Unfortunately, I’m no magician.

 

I can’t pull a rabbit out of a hat, but I can pull a hair out of an arsehole.

 

So with my epilator in one hand & a forest management manual in the other, it’s time to bight down on a strap & do my worst.

 

Wish me luck.

 

 

What have I learned so far?

 

• The extension mirrors you have to have for towing a caravan are AWESOME for plucking hairs out of your face/nose your eyebrows.

 

• I’m in my thirties now. Always, ALWAYS check under your chin… and up your nose.

 

• It doesn’t hurt to check the old inner thighs as well. Specially if you intend to wear shorts that sit above the knee.

In Retrospect: Part One

 

To start, let me take you back to just last week.

 

Something happened last week that can best be described as entirely Laithe’s fault unfortunate.

 

Back in Perth we emptied out the van so Laithe could go nuts with the silicone & seal up all the cracks where the dust comes in.

He put a few screws here & there to hold things in place while the sealant dried.

 

He left the screws insitu.

 

So when we left Carnarvon the cupboards were stocked up & very full.

 

I’d managed to score myself some little treats, one being a certain bottle of Ginger Ale (I can’t tell you how sick of water & hideous long life milk I am! We hadn’t even had juice for ages either).

 

We headed off, down a not-so-beaten-track, to spend a couple of days here…

Warroora Station (pronounced Warra)- Photos on Facebook

 

We camped on the beach at 14 Mile.

The scenery was spectacular.

 

Until I got inside the van.

 

It’s always a little bit exciting opening the van back up after we’ve been “off road”. Despite our best efforts, you never really know what you’ll find… or where you’ll find it.

 

This time when I got in there I found we’d made some sort of industrial strength grout (or a really great scone batter) with my bottle of Ginger Ale & some flour.

 

10 kilos of flour.

 

In the bedside cupboard.

 

It looked a bit like this…

 

One of the screws Laithe had left in the cupboard had pierced my beloved Ale bottle &, on the corrugated road, it had fizzed & sprayed.

 

Everywhere.

 

Then it started to leak out from under the cupboard, run down the side of the bed & onto the floor mats.

 

What you can’t see in the picture is how nicely it was, sort of, baked on to the wheel arch because of the heat.

 

What you also can’t see is that I had to use salt water to clean everything off. You have to carry your own water into most places up here because there’s no fresh water supply & we needed every last drop for drinking & cooking & washing stinky bodies & such before bed.

 

So I managed to salvage a lot of the flour after sifting through with my fingers to remove the doughy dags that had formed here & there. Everything else was sort of cleaned & left with a nice sticky/salty residue.

 

And maybe some seaweed glued on here & there.

 

It’s not the first time this sort of shit has happened.

 

Last time it was 2 kilos of sugar.

 

The resident ants that have decided to nest SOMEWHERE in this bloody van just about shit themselves with excitement.

 

I’m sure they were kicking back, in a wall cavity or light fitting somewhere, thinking “would you just LOOK at these arseholes! Amateurs.You NEVER leave it in the bag! Can somebody get them some Tupperware or something?!”

 

(#Note- The sugar incident? Also entirely Laithe’s fault unfortunate.)

 

 

Remember when I said “There is no toilet to clean”?

 

Well, at Waroora Station, you not only have to bring your own fresh water, you have to take your own Chemical Toilet with you as well.

 

We were aware of this & reluctantly purchased an uncomfortable little beauty back in Perth.

 

It had stayed in the box, unused, for at least 2 months because we hadn’t finished arguing about who’s job it would be to empty it.

 

Given that I am a nurse, Laithe believes I have a “degree in Poo” & all things poo related.

 

I disagree.

 

There are many downsides to carrying your own toilet, in my opinion, but the main benefit has to be location, location, location. One day I’m pooing to Cyndi Lauper in Carnarvon & the next night I’m on a pristine beach, under a sea of stars so clear & bright, listening to the waves gently lap at the shore.

 

There were shooting stars all around me, & it wasn’t just a lack of fibre.

If only I’d taken a picture for you.

  

All arguments aside, someone had to empty the toilet. And seeing as Laithe’s the one that fills it up the most I thought it only fair that he be the one to do the job (no pun intended).

 

I was just there for moral support… with the camera. In case he got shit in his mouth.

Luckily for Laithe it was incident free at the dump point & the newly christened toilet was cleaned & put back in it’s box. For as long as possible. I didn’t have to touch a thing.

 

Back on the road & with the toilet safely stored we passed this…

 

…and ended up here…

Floating on Ningaloo Reef, Coral Bay

 

…but that’s a story for another day.

An education of sorts.

Lesson One:

 

Georgie started school this year &, in my infinite wisdom, I decided I’d be fine to take on the role of, Asian Tiger Mom totally laid back, teacher.

It’s only Kindy, right?

No big deal.

I can manage that.

I went to University, or something.

I can still even remember Kindergarten. The teachers, the classroom, the miniature furniture, the giant pencils, the chair bags, the smells (mostly clag, peanut butter, bananas, & a hint of urine).

 

So I did some research. Talked to my teacherly friends. Got the low down.

 

Tried to apply for “Home Schooling”, but we didn’t meet the criteria.

School of Distance Education? Not enough postal/internet access.

“Unschooling”- not enough under arm hair.

School of Life- not enough weed.

 

So I’ve been going it alone. Without the weed & the underarm hair. Well, mostly without the underarm hair. Making it up as I go, so to speak.

 

We bought a couple of age appropriate work books from Targét.

I looked up the curriculum…. And the 8 BILLION web pages about schooling your kid.

That oughta do it, right?

 

 

 

What ever I teach, it’s all inconsequential really.

 

Because she knows everything.

 

Along with knowing everything she’s also perfected The Eye Roll, The Foot Tap, The Exasperated Sigh of Annoyance, The Stomp & Slam, & The Huff & Strop.

 

There’s only so much huffing & stomping you can do in 4 square meters of floor space though.

After that, you get tied to the roof racks.

 

We don’t just concentrate on an academic education.

 

She’s learning really important, practical things. Things she might otherwise only learn from watching back to back episodes of Macgyver.

 

How to put on a pair of long pants in a wet shower cubicle without dipping her hems in the grotty water.

It’s involved some intensive training, not at all dissimilar to this…

 

How to navigate her way through a visit to the bathroom, touching the least amount of surfaces as possible & pointing out the most likely places you’ll find all the gram negative bacilli & cocci as she goes.

 

How to drive one of these…

 

How to catch, clean, cook & crack into one of these…

 

How awesome it is to be able to do this…

 

How they make these…

 

How many different colours these come in…

 

And this she picked up just from watching Laithe, not me…

Fish scaling.

 

She’s learning the value of a dollar.

I’d saved her birthday money from the last 5 years & cracked it out when we left for her to buy souvenirs & stuff while we travel.

 

She is officially the richest member of our family.

 

Unfortunately money doesn’t buy taste so I’ve had to veto most would-be purchases over the last few months.

 

She is, however, loving herself sick with her new purse ($6 from Strandbags). Naturally, a purse needs a handbag to be carried in. I managed to convince her that the horrendous lovely shiny silver bag she picked just wasn’t right for her & that she could, in fact, live without it.

So when she walked into the to the second hand shop in Denmark & found this little Billabong beauty for ONE DOLLAR, she was ecstatic!

She also scored these IMAX DVD’s.

 

She’s watched the Deep Sea & Galapagos ones over & over, & now tells me (in one breath) that when she is a marine biologist, she’s going to go to the Galapagos Islands to take photos to bring back to show the kids in her class when she’s a teacher…

 

She’s also going to be a nurse.

 

And maybe a pilot.

 

I wrote most of this post months ago & never published it. The pictures are old & so are the stories.

 

But, the other day, after weeks of this…

 

…the first tooth finally fell out & the Tooth Fairy came through with the goods.

 

Then, this morning, this happened…

 

 

Georgie went to school!

 

We’re staying with friends in Onslow while Laithe gets a few weeks work, & Georgie really wanted to give school a go.

 

So off she went.

 

Not a single nervous bone in her body.

 

Emerson, on the other hand, was devastated.

 

Not even a trip to the park on the way home cheered him up.

“Where my George?”

“Mum, I weely do want my George”. 

 

We just picked her up from school & she said she’d had a great day.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

And in other REALLY IMPORTANT news, this happened…

Living dangerously?

No. Just showering WITHOUT thongs on.

 

And not a bucket in sight.