When I look at myself in the mirror, I see a tired looking almost mumsy type woman. I feel as though I’m tired from trying to fight off looking old.
I still want to look hip and trendy, although I never really was, never really have been. It doesn’t help that my hair needs a wash, my roots are greasy, and my scalp feels itchy. The ends of my hair are dry, there is still a hint of colour on them, from the dye job I had almost two years ago. I saw one white hair, short, stubby, near my temple. I struggled to get hold of it by itself, I didn’t want to pull out any non-white hairs, and when I finally did, I laid it out on the dark surface of the table top. I do this from time to time, I think the first time I plucked a white air from my head was when I was about 16, during my GSCE exams. Now, over 10 years on, they have taken on a much greater significance, indicators of my maturity, reminders of my aging. The thought that one day, I will have enough of these that I could use those non-bleach semi-permanent dyes and change my hair colour without the commitment the way I have always longed to, cheers me up slightly. Being able to look at the hair, examine it closely is strangely therapeutic. In suppose its removal from my head gives the illusion of youthfulness which I can extend for a few years more. I knew a girl of my age, even a slightly younger, whose hair is almost solidly grey. She dyes it all the time, but sometimes she lets her roots show, a couple of times in the two years I’ve known her, she’s let her roots show almost an inch of growth, and the greyness of her hair is actually enhanced by the darkness of the hair colour she has chosen. More recently she chose to dye her hair black, so that when her hair grew, she looked increasingly more and more like the mother from the Adams family.

I am in Plymouth, on the south coast of England, working for a few days, and today is my day off. The weather has decided to take a tempestuous turn for the worse, the sky is overcast, and it is decided un-warm outside. I am not encouraged to go out at all, having no car, and no bicycle, but will, nevertheless. But I am disappointed, as I had been looking forward to sitting by the water’s edge, which will probably be uncomfortably windy and cold today.

My hands are cold even now, in my hotel room, as I type away. I feel tired still, I did not sleep as thoroughly as I would have liked last night, and am slightly tempted to stay in my room to watch bad tv, although I won’t. I have started to read novels again, after having forsaken them for a good few months, during the writing of my thesis. I’m looking for tips and inspiration. My own story does not flow easily. Sometimes I have to sit down and force myself to write a few lines, its like wading through water, or something of a more solid consistency. When I say that, it does not sound good, doesn’t bode well for any hope of producing a masterful story. But it has been like this for as long as I can remember, and I still want to write.