Rapunzel

Rapunzel, Rapunzel let down your hair.

I have a problem. A chronic attachment to short hair on women and long hair on men. Why this role reversal of the traditional gender barnet styles? I really don't have any coherent answers for you. Sadly when it comes to hair, I sort of go weak at the knees for a lady's pixie crop or a fella's pony tail. 

I've been trying for about three years now to grow my hair. In this time a small but spritely friend of mine has regained her beautifully thick locks which she cut short in a moment of madness in second year. When I was younger it was never a problem, and even Rapunzel would have been jealous. My locks would swish around my shoulders quite happily, ignorant to the fact that my teenage hormones were about to kick in, and put an end to their long healthy lives.  Literally cut their lives short. (MUST STOP BAD JOKES IN 2011)

For a couple of years I have obsessed over certain plait hairstyles made famous by Heidi. Right now I want to gauge out my eyes and bang my head on the table in exasperation at the stupidity of people like Heidi Montag who has ruined my google search for 'Heidi Hair'. To bring you back to my favourite hair style of the year please peruse the following images. In addition, try to imagine me stretching my short locks unsuccessfully into some messy plaits. Maybe come February my hair will actually embrace the plaits, and I'll look like some of these babes...

The come touch me plait

The goody two shoes plait

The winter princess plait

Hey a girl can dream.

La forme

de la femme est belle

Ry Cash ACNE cashmere 

Ignored the warnings

People never hesitate in giving advice, warnings and blessings. However, it is often easier to go with your own instincts rather than admit that someone else's opinion might actually be better. 


Some of the most poignant advice I've ever received was given to me in 2007. It was to say that emotions come in waves, moreover they are uncontrollable and unpredictable. It is therefore no wonder that so many people find themselves in therapy many many years after personal dramas. I think that therapy can be an effective service, and an extremely helpful outlet for many people. Naturally, talking to someone you do not know can be intimidating, terrifying even. But it is the first step to reclaiming your self and speaking to an impartial somebody may just be the trigger you needed.


I sometimes wonder if counsellors are like the people listening silently at confession. But more often I think of them as people wearing masks. A mask for work, a mask for home and a mask for alone time. With each new mask you can assume a new identity, gives the phrase 'put a brave face on' a whole new meaning. Today I'm wearing my cat mask, and for the moment I feel safe.

Abby Lee

Chloe Sevigny

Alley Cat

Bond Babes

Throughout time Bond girls have been synonymous with glamour, beauty and an uncontrollable urge to throw themselves lips first at our British hero. 


Each week I like to settle on a new beach in Gwada. I feel like I'm making the most of my time here by meeting this taxing demand. But more and more, as I gaze out at the turquoise rippling sea I can't help but think about some of the babes who have frequented these Caribbean shores for films, photo shoots and pleasure. 


Bond girls always had time to rise up from the waves in various states of undress, but they moved with utter grace and never failed to excite an awaiting audience. There is of course the iconic Ursula Andress, who sadly now resembles someone who takes refuge in a very hot wind tunnel.(Regret that face lift much, love?) But in her hey day the view was pretty sweet and pretty Caribbean. 

As far as the Bond Babes goes though, I have other favourites. I adore the British rose Arterton who isn't nearly as annoying as the overly and unnecessarily praised Knightly. Arterton actually smiles, a smile that ignites her porcelain skin and almond eyes.

  Who's a pretty kitty?

ID 2010

Cinderella

I'm clearly still learning heaps in French, even though I should be smug with a French/German degree already under my belt. Today I had my little girl's fantasy crushed. Cinderella didn't lose her glass slipper, she actually lost a squirrel fur shoe. How's that for a smack of reality? The 'pantoufle de vair' has been timelessly  mistranslated. 


What young girl didn't imagine her Prince Charming chasing after her clutching a dainty (size 4/5) glass slipper? Maybe I was a really impressionable child, I want to pay my thanks to Disney for that. ( Note : Mermaids are an exception to this rule) So Cinderella coldheartedly donned a pair of her dead pet's fur as shoes to the ball, what a peculiar outfit that must have been. Blates a colossal size 7 too. I hope it was really bloody cold, so as to justify such a fashion faux pas.


I like shoes. These ones in particular at the moment.

Toshop Patti

All eyes on you

Despite my homeland being the CCTV capital of the world, I have never up until now felt that I was being watched. In England cameras are live at every level, be it a curse or a blessing. Guadeloupe does not believe in such a system. Rather than the cameras and their red blinking eyes, here we have Guadeloupean men. Poised and staring from every angle. 

Unlike the discreet wink of red bulb, the men here do not hesitate in their attempts to blind you.  At a house warming party just recently I was 'enlightened' by a Gwad. He explained the story of his upbringing, and how his eleven siblings from six different mothers and the same father, were all down to genetics. Apparently his father's inability to keep it in his pants is a genetic problem! And the poor brothers, how they suffer! One indulged me in his philosophy, to live life just for himself and nobody else. A great idea in theory I guess, but in practice a lot harder to live by without constantly being reminded of the consequences. Here - eleven children to support. This genetic 'disorder' is no doubt aggravated by the brothers' charm and their smiles that would make even the most sensible of girls throw caution to the wind.

Living in Guadeloupe has been my first experience living as a minority; it has given me a renewed respect for people of colour facing problems here in England. At least 80% of the Guadeloupean population is of Black or Indian descent creating a veritable cultural melting pot in the middle of the Caribbean sea. Whilst some Guadeloupean cling on to a certain bitterness towards the white French holidaymakers, who are still viewed as the money splurging colonists, others are a tad more welcoming. As a tall, ginger, English speaking white girl I was often met with very puzzled looks.

As I become accustomed to all eyes on me. Perhaps you should ask yourself who is watching you?

The Diving Bell

I am growing increasingly frustrated that I cannot dip my head into the refreshingly blue Caribbean waters. Due to an ongoing ear drama (between myself, Dr Toh and the drum) I am forbidden from getting my right ear wet. Whilst my left ear is pretty much free to dip in and out of the water as she pleases, my right ear is constantly held above water. Like a badly behaving child relegated to the naughty corner my ear is out of action; sadly there are no arm band equivalents for a poorly ear.

The fairer sex

The inequality between the sexes is without doubt a well trodden path of discussion. However, new shores have cast new light upon my own musings.


Never have I ever felt more visible, more white and more female than during my time here in Gwad. Guadeloupian men for the most part are Afro- Caribbean, extremely forward, beyond confident and fond of whistling, howling and hissing at European women as they innocently pass by. At first I made the mistake of smiling at the odd one, soon realising that even a tiny twitch of the mouth is an open invitation to unbridled harassment. I kid yo not.


A fairly reliable Guadeloupian male source informed me that there is one lady who earns the respect of the guys here in an instant. With just one note of her growly vocal chords, Lady Saw keeps the men of the Carribean in line. Queen of the dancehall, the guys do not mess. I'm never going to master her sexual confidence or her aggressively commanding stage presence, but I will continue to admire the women who put these guys in their place. 

I won't be pining after her lycra dresses, fishnets and Cleopatra weave though...

MISSING

A/W 2010 fashion

I'd really like to be wrapped up in some sweeeet soft camel coat, with a belt, maybe a hood. A crisp white shirt, leopard print pony shoes and my dirty boy levis. 

Please send me photos of your clothes England. I have an insatiable desire to see your threads. 

High time

For an update. Please excuse the delay between posts, have been stretching my wings and have taken flight for sandier shores. What with all the organisation, operation and au revoirs it has taken me quite a while to get back into the swing of el blogger. I plan to make amends, not only for myself and the self indulgence but also to keep friends aware of my adventures abroad. 


Remember me the ginger one riiight.


Now based in Guadeloupe, Caribbean I am keeping a hold on reality just.... The beaches, palm trees and perpetual sunshine make it hard to imagine that Gwad is anything other than a perfect paradise. Living here is a different story. Add to that postcard image spontaneous tropical storms, dodging goats,cows and rude boys on the way to anywhere and a highly unreliable transport system and you might only begin to picture a more realistic image of life over here.


I am thoroughly enjoying comparing my tan lines with others (even though I'm laughably white compared to most of them) and exploring new beaches and types of waves. Note - face the sea at all times it can be wildly unpredictable. I've already lost one towel and one dress to the sea's wrath...


Might be thousands of miles away from the hustle and bustle of LDN, but can't help but miss it a tad.I am adapting slowly to the super slow sway of life in the Caribbean, where even the most simple of tasks can take weeks. Having my phone stolen was probably a blessing in disguise, forcing me to slow down too.


Back to the dancehall.

They don't love you like I love you

Neglect. Unashamed, absolute neglect of this blog. Oh babes. 

I am but one exam away from complete liberty and the rest of my little life.  Perhaps then, after a couple of months of hibernation under piles of paper, forests' worth of notes and mind maps further to extreme social exclusion I will regain some of what I lost. Namely some serious colour to my ghost like skin tone and some smiley happy people. The first ripples of happiness and freedom have already passed through Bristol students, with others scowling on in jealousy. Yes we know you couldn't be happier to be free of the shackles of education, but doesn't mean we necessarily want it blasted it in our faces...

Bitter. Me? Never.

Made some superb purchases of late. Whilst others got their kicks from slave labour in the library, burning energy in the gym or cleaning the house repeatedly, I find myself drawn to obscene amounts of online winning ( I WIN the items). Much to the dismay of my housemates who continually greet the postman with withering looks, as he hands over yet another clunky package of goods for a certain MJ. Favourite purchases ( to be papped and posted soon) a tropical playsuit, some suede caged heels and a glitter lipstick.

On to the last, and then onto many many more adventures overseas.

Norma Jean

Or Miss Monroe. Whatever you call the blonde bombshell would you recognise her with red locks?

From her beautifully sculpted eyebrows to the perfect red hue of her lipstick, Marilyn embodies all that is glamourous, feminine, beautiful from the 1950s.

I've been absent from blogosphere for sometime, bit of a meltdown, something I'm sure Norma Jean could relate to. Rather than hit the bottle, I hit the books. Memory theory, French crusades and a tongue in cheek view of the prude Englishman. A girl's day is never done.

What a babe.

Food for thought

Layering up for a winter by the sea

Plaited hair and plaited summer dress

Flowers and bicycles in Amsterdam, travelling in style.

Banging beards and mighty moustaches

I am a great fan of facial hair…on men. Be it a little rough stubble adorning a strong jaw line, a full-blown rusty beard or a handle bar moustache taking pride of place on a face.

 Facial hair + man = smiles all round

Long gone are the days when beards were equated with yetis, gorillas or even Tom Hanks in Castaway, today all forms or facial hair are heralded as being fashion forward. With men experimenting more and more with their styling and beauty regimes it comes as no surprise that focus has also been extended to the facial hair. How men manage to tame, trim and tousle bewilders me, but style them they do. You need only wander along any tube and on show is a plethora of facial hair types, my personal favourites are the Dali-esque moustache and some super chunky 90s rock sideburns. Both very different, but both emanating an originality that is just a step further than vintage shopping.

Cave men first sported the looks way back when cave woman could rival them in the facial hair category, today, thanks to the lovely lads of GQ, Vice and Dazed magazines facial hair for guys is once again ‘cool’.  It seems as though there is a style to suit every modern man, with the help of charity movements such as Movember and trendsetters of the world, other young men are taking more risks than ever with their facial hair. Thank-you Brad Pitt’s micro dreadlock beard, Jake Gyllenhaal’s rough bristles and Models 1’s white whiskered David Gant.

Some critique facial hair as it signals a certain kind of personality – unkempt, messy and chaotic, but isn’t it this wildness what attracts us to them? Is there not something very animalistic within all of us that longs for the graze of a beard against out soft cheeks?

Leotard

I have learnt that Scrabble + Milka chocolate + my housemates is not always a great combination. Please visualise us trying to create longer words than "dog" or "say". Dark times at Sunningdale. It seems as though extreme sugar intake makes it harder to concentrate, never is this more clear than when Filo inhales some Milka. Bye bye chocolate, and hello single child syndrome.  Crashing around the table, shaking up the Scrabble letters and generally making a lot of noise, Filo does it all. As a child Filo liked to perform for her parents' friends, much to the dismay of her mother. And so was penned the phrase "put on your leotard" to describe anyone who just loves to perform.

I love leotards,unitards, jumpsuits - you name the onesie and I'll wear it. So ideal for perfectly fitting outfits, I'm surprised it took so long for leotards to become a fashion staple again.

The tale of my red hair

Once upon a time there was a girl called Melanie. From the age of twelve Melbo knew deep down that she was destined for far more than just the mousy brown hair her parents had bestowed upon her. She decided to make a change.

I took a deep breath and reached for Ariel's luscious locks.

Here the adventures continue, follow my gingerlocks and I on a journey dotted by frocks, fabrics and fun.