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Just chop it all off…

In my continuing quest to ‘try new things’, I decided to chop most of my hair off yesterday. I usually steer clear of hair salons as much as possible because:

  1. * I’m a whole generation older than most of the clients, grrr
  2. * I’m not ready for a bubble perm and tint just yet
  3. * I never, ever get the cut I ask for

Yet I was feeling strangely optimistic and full of hope as I tried a new hairdressers. I figured that if they could fit me in straight away, it was meant to be. And they could. I was given a look book, a strong coffee and the latest copy of Vogue. A child (it seemed) sashayed over and picked up my locks, tutted, exchanged glances with the child next to her and just about managed not to roll her eyes. I know, I know, I have let my whole hair-care regime lapse into grunge since being diagnosed with MS. It’s not been that high up on my list of priorities, but that’s all about to change…

The child, who turned out to be a mother-of-two, asked me what look I was aiming for and we discussed a few ideas. I like Keira Knightley’s style in that perfume advert, but then I like a lot of things that are just not going to happen. I was kitted out with a cape, plastic shoulder mat and towel and led over to the sink where my hair was washed, conditioned, massaged and pummelled into submission. Meekly, I followed her back to the chair and read a magazine until she was finished. Couldn’t look. Finally, I had to. Hmm. Ok. It’s kind of short. Oh, that’s a lot of hair on the floor. But I actually like it. It’s swishy!

I paid up and bounced out of the salon, pretending I was attracting admiring glances as I walked back to the car. Back home, I did what every woman does after the hairdressers and raced to the biggest mirror I could find, turning this way and that, mussing it up, mentally working out if I could live with it. I think I can, although my neck’s a bit cold. And I sure don’t look like Keira Knightley.

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Interview nerves

Is it just me or are job interviews like blind dates? You need to make a dazzling impression in 3 seconds flat, you spend ages on your outfit and you practice your witty laugh and come-back comments in the mirror. I had an interview yesterday and I always reckon Friday interviews are a good bet – everyone’s looking forward to the weekend and we can just kick back and chill. Wouldn’t you know though, it was a job I applied for and promptly forgot about as I was only asked to submit my CV and a covering email. Yet I can spend hours and hours on carefully-crafted, 10-page long personal statements and not hear a peep.

I took an inordinate amount of time selecting a suitable outfit, painstakingly applied make-up so that it looked like I wasn’t wearing any, teased my unruly hair into bouncy waves and applied perfume very liberally. I read up on the company, memorised facts and wrote a few tiny crib notes on my wrist, carefully hidden under my watch. Unfortunately, as this whole process took over two hours, I downed gallons of coffee to steady my nerves. By the time I left the house, every nerve was buzzing, but, hey, I was on form, I was flying.

At the reception desk, a jaded receptionist slapped a very large ID sticker on my coat and commanded me to sit and wait until I was ‘collected’. I was then lead to the most open-plan office ever designed where the workers were handing round birthday cake, casting sad little glances in my direction,  as I huddled in the tiny corner sitting-area.

Finally I was called in to The Panel and an hour (an hour!) later, I was led back to the lift and sent on my way. I won’t be cracking open the Champagne just yet, but I think I have a good chance. If I am successful I get called back for a second, then a third interview, gulp. Wish me luck and watch this space…

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Chocolate dreams

Chocolate haunts me. Last night a giant Jaffa Cake chased me down the road. When I woke up, I could almost taste it. I adore chocolate and it worships me in return. So much so that it hangs around my thighs, stubbornly clinging on for dear life . I know we need to go our separate ways, but it’s a really comforting friend to have around. Always available, cheap and comes in endless varieties.

Multiple sclerosis has given me a great excuse – when the worst has already happened, who cares if you treat yourself now and again? So many other things seem more important than whether I am knocking back the chocolate buttons by the bucket-load. Just had an excruciating lumbar puncture? Have a family-sized Galaxy bar. Fallen flat on your face in a packed restaurant? Order a profiterole surprise to share then grab both forks.

In a desperate bid to curb my cravings, I came up with a cunning plan. Advent calendars are on sale now. What if I were to buy one and only pop open two windows a day? Plus, I’ll get some early Christmassy vibes going. I reached Christmas Eve that same night and put the pillaged calendar out for recycling. Ok, Plan B. Eat no chocolate all week, then have a blow-out on Friday. I was cured! I ate so much of the stuff, I vowed never to eat it again, until I woke up on Saturday, noticed there were still a few Maltesers left in the packet, and I was lost in a chocolate haze once more.

I know, I could keep on trundling out the old MS excuse for ever, but where do I draw the line? I don’t want to give in just because I have MS. Perhaps because I have MS I should look after myself more, not less.

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It’s all me, me, me

Having multiple sclerosis, just how hard is it to show sympathy to people who are a little under the weather but who make a lot of noise about it? Has MS made me less compassionate, and do I somehow think no one else has the right to moan to me about their own troubles?

I only ask as two friends and The Teenager have recently been struck down by a bad cold. All three are male, so naturally ‘man flu’ has been mooted as a possibility, but to be fair, they do seem very poorly and I am trying to be sympathetic, listen attentively and give helpful suggestions. I care about these people and hate to see them ill.

But a teeny-tiny-little part of me thinks it’s a bit like expecting a poor person to empathise with a rich guy when his Porsche is in the garage for repairs. Sure, it’s an inconvenience, but it’s temporary and normal service will resume soon enough. I feel like saying, ‘ill? You’re ill? You want to see what ill is?’ How awful is that? What sort of person am I, to even think that?

I have bored my friends to tears over the last year, constantly dissecting symptoms to the nth degree, analysing lesions and spilling out my fears for the future. They have sat with me through a merry-go-round of appointments, held my hand during MRI’s and kept my glass of wine filled. So I feel very small-minded to begrudge them that little bit of extra attention and help when they need it. I have offered to drive 18 miles through the rain to bring supplies to one friend and have tucked The Teenager up in bed with a book and hot Lemsip. This is one battle the MS Monster won’t win. MS may be for life, but so are friends and family.

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