Friends in High Places

I've recently had to go through the incomparable trauma of getting a new head shot done for the mag. I've been bumped off the Tried and Tested panel since everyone knows my long hair shot is an out and out lie, so they won't believe I try out the products. Part of my back to normality strategy involves reinstating myself on the job front, which means being reinstated on the panel, which means a posed shot with short short hair. Argh.

The main problem is of course the hair. After a blissful couple of weeks of 'oh your hair looks really good now!' and having a rough idea of how it will behave on a day to day basis, I'm now back to having no clue whatsoever. This does not bode well for headshot day. My relaxing treatment has, well, relaxed in terms of its effect on controlling the waves these days.
You can see my anarchic hair discomfort in the shot if you do happen to turn to the later pages of next weeks issue. It's all behind the eyes.

My shoot this morning; first things first, make a beeline for Peter Lux, wondrous hairstylist and friend.
Me: "Please you have to help me." (whilst demonstrating excessive length and unnatural projection of sidies).
Peter: "I'm not cutting it".
Me: *sobs*

Instead he sat me down and lectured, sorry, chatted to me about my options. Starting with a Keratin treatment, or Brazilian Blowdry to the uninitiated. Essentially it does the same thing as a relaxing treatment, but it's a very different thing. If you're not interested in why skip this paragraph (but risk missing a mega fact about Immac - you remember Immac?)

Relaxing opens the cuticles of a hair shaft to allow the treatment to get to work on the shaft underneath. But, the more closed the cuticle, the healthier, happier and more manageable the hair. Relaxing and perming works the same way to open the cuticles so much it sort of makes hair spongy. Immac fact: hair removal cream is basically nothing other than really strong relaxer or permer. The only difference is it raises and opens the cuticle so much that the hair shaft underneath melts.

Um, so I've very recently changed my opinion on hair relaxing. I'm sorry readers, I was ignorant to the full facts. I fearlessly try in the face of error, so don't worry if you've already relaxed yours. all it means is your hair probably looked fabulous for 2 weeks but now it's suspiciously curly again? Time to try Brazilian. This does the opposite job of smoothing the cuticle so much it actually makes hair healthier and straighter for a good 6-8 weeks. I'm going to try this out ASAP and report back. You can do it on top of chemical treatment too. Win win!

Boring or excessively interesting, we can all take serious note of Peters Pearls of Wisdom. He happens to know a thing a or two about pixie crops, since he does the hair of our Pixie Crop Heroine, Emma Watson herself. I unknowingly bumped into him at an event last week where she was, (I know). When she came in the first thing I was envious of was her sleek, perfectly groomed, wonderfully flattering hair. Very close second was the Valentino lace gown she was wearing. Third, in retrospect, her fashion standing, millions of pounds and presence of both boobies to fill out the beautiful Valentino to perfection. And her Louboutins. This is how my mind works when it comes to envy these days.

Today on my shoot he told me he did her hair that night. I thought he was just there for the free pigs in blanket. Kidding, it was the crabmeat blinis. So I now have insider knowledge of exactly how he did it, and a live hotline to maybe the biggest expert in beautifully managed short short hair I could ever happen to be friends with. WOOHOO

Emma Watson sleek crop How To:
1. Get hold of some run of the mill hair gel. chances are your boyfriend has some from 1998.
2. Section off very top section, then slick everything underneath down with the gel. For an extra specially sleek look Peter did very small sections to ensure it was all saturated with gel.
3. The most flattering bit is super flat sides, and this can only be done with serious amounts of precise gelling.
4. Her hair is longer than mine, so Peter twisted the very back and pinned into a minuscule chignon to keep the neck tidy.
5. The top section he sprayed with a little mist of spray gel and shine spray, it takes any crispness out of the hair and gel, and also it retains a little volume so it's not quite as flat as back and sides.

That's his formula for most flattering flatness ever. I'm going to try it immediately. I'm almost positive DadJokes has had a dalliance with wet look in his time, I'll recce his bathroom cabinet imminently.

So back to my erroneous sidies. It is that small 1 inch of hair from sidie to sidie and right around the hair line is the bit that defines the length within any hair style. Unfortunately this is the bit that, in Peters own words, looks stupid while it's growing. The bit on top is just the filling it out, the layers. So however strong my temptation is to deal with my 'stupid' sidies and emergence of a worrying mullet at the back, I MUST REFRAIN.

In my case, because I want to grow my hair for wedding purposes, I have to let the inch grow till it gets really really really annoying, then I have to cut it upwards in tiny measures. Basically, my hair is two inches long all over, so the side bit is two inches, but the bit above it is too, so when it's brushed down, the sidie looks particularly stupid because of all the ends not meeting, so in a months time (apparently I'll have 12 mm more) then I start cutting the very very bottom to meet the layer above, so it can all grow down in a much more civilised manner and thicken up the ends.

Make sense? If not you only need to know that a Brazilian is best. A common philosophy among women folk in a certain sense anyway, regardless of their health or hair length, yes women?..

Follow @MisterPeterLux here




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The High Heel Holy Grail

This may seem something of a flippant post, but honestly, never underestimate the power of shoes. This all started with my original character flaw: massive worry. I'm trying to live by a new philosophy regarding this evilest of enemies; When faced with a worry, try to absolve it. So, my current one regards footwear. Aside from high-diving back in the deep end of hectic word mode, attempting to sell and buy a home simultaneously, plan a wedding extravaganza and religiously stick to my 'only drink at weekends' rule (failing), I am concerned with a gentle worry about falling off the high heel waggon.

Oh yes this is a worry of the highest order of ridiculousness, but if you've ever watched that episode of Sex In The City where Carrie realises she's spent her potential house deposit on Manolo Blahniks you'll be near understanding. Imagine that horror, then imagine such a significant collection gathering dust in favour of necessarily comfortable Ugg boots or Converse, and you'll realise the gravity of 30 odd years of heel expertise gone to ruin. What a waste. All that sole hardening and ankle straining to pretty near Victoria Beckham standard. Those piles of vertiginous desirables that carried me from desk to, well just to meeting room, tea run and canteen if I'm perfectly honest - lost to comfort-in-the-face-of-joint pain. Heel expertise is not a 'get back on the horse' kind of skill. The tolerance for awkward foot arching wears off very quickly with my level of convalescence, so now I am practically a stiletto virgin once again.

I will always prefer the elongating effect of heel height, the confidence boosting, bum lifting, attitude changing, not to mention the absence of Dadjokes favourite 'midget' or 'magoo' moniker. But with my chemo legacy hip pain still limp-inducingly present, I need a compromise. This is my worry-busting mission.

Ok yes this may sound like a very wordy excuse to spend a fair whack on some more fancy shoes, but when shoes are as important to your feeling good as a clean bill of health or a life time supply of Malteser Celebrations, there is no such excuse needed.

So, I've found them. Even before the cancer I considered it my mission in life to find shoes that were wearable for an entire day, including journey to work or even an impromptu shopping spree. Throw in a fancy label and I'm SOLD (Oh it's not just me, why else would sample sales need practical riot control?).

Acne Pistol Boots. This isn't a fresh new concept in shoes, the cowboyish ankle boot has been around for a while, I just always felt stupid/masculine/stunted/fancy-dress in them. This version is boot perfection. Slim at the ankle, mid chunky heel that's tapered for a more feminine finish, not too rounded toe and nice and plain and simple. Plus they still make your legs/bum etc look magnificent, even teamed with skinny jeans. Even better, the Topshop version is just as amazing. Fraction of the cost, more readily available, but the payoff is the lack of delicious designer label satisfaction. Personally I'm happier with my Toppers versions, since I wear them every single day without feel of battering. My designer shoe collection stay in boxes and only get pavement action when absolutely necessary. How wasteful is that? Now I need never feel under dressed for the corner shop run again!

Add to the list the impossible to get hold of Isabel Marant Wedge Hi Tops and I have officially got my comfy, exciting shoe/life balance sorted. I managed to get my hands on a pair. This can only be because of rare shopping opportunities not available to the full-time workers. I happened to be in Selfridges when a new delivery came in so I was one of those annoying people who made it sell out again within 5 minutes. Thank you painful operation for affording me that perk. This level of hype obviously adds to the desirability of said shoe, which makes it all the more perfect a find for the purposes of this post. I ummed and ahhed for 4 whole seasons, till I finally cracked and forked out a small fortune. These are colourful hi tops of Back To The Future magnitude. Unforgivingly hip hop and probably not quite style appropriate for a 32 year old sophisticated heel fan, but I've never had so many compliments or attention paid to any other thing I own. Including my fiancé.

so exciting they get shared around the fashion desk at work

My mission accomplished; Cancer 0: Succeeding Style 1. Eternally comfortable, very exciting footwear that laughs in the face of hip pain.  I'd best get selling on eBay for all my less comfortable redundant pairs. (As IF...)

Acne Pistol Boot Perfection. Buy it here

Aaaaand Relax...

I have finally finally had an entire spate of good news, that includes getting test results from my cats own lumpectomy, which happened the same week as my one. So now that we're a whole cancer-free household (so long as they got it all this time...), I'm feeling a strange sensation creeping in. One I can just about recall from mid 2010, and so alien to me I can barely remember how to spell it. 'Re-laaxaychun'.

Starting with my hair. I'm being advised on a regular basis to control my worry by problem solving. My microphone head, growing at all angles and inclines, sticking up resolutely when I specifically need it to stick down, definitely qualifies as a worry. The gentle kind I am more than happy to be experiencing  granted, but still, a worry nonetheless. I'm trying to get back to a healthy level of self confidence, and rotund hair just isn't conducive.

Worry Solving Solution: Relax. The chemical version, rather than the emotional one this time. My hair angel Claire suggested a gentle treatment to help my hair grow out with some dignity. Which shamefully, in my position as beauty editor I hadn't even considered. It makes perfect sense that flat hair will behave 'better' than curly, it'll sit closer to the head and look like its following the downward rule of gravity, rather than the outward rule of post chemo regrowth.

Five minutes in a child-friendly home relaxing kit for Afro hair and suddenly my crop has gone from sh!t to chic. Now when I wash it I generally know what its going to look like till I wash it again. When I wake up in the morning, or simply get up from a horizontal position I don't look like Zoe Wanamaker plugged into a wall socket, and I don't need industrial strength product to stop my (curlier than anywhere else) sidies pinging up at alternate angles.

before                 after

Yes a trip to a salon might be a slightly safer bet if you're home-kit shy, or don't have a hair angel to hand. But I happen to know of a BOY (who shall remain anonymous) who regularly relaxes his hair at home, and if a useless boy can do it, I'm pretty sure anyone who has hair can.

We used Soft-Sheen Carson Dark and Lovely for Kids. It is a gentle (as gentle as chemically altering your hair can be), nourishing formula and it costs a tenner. Mine went on for five minutes, just like a home hair dye, then washed out thoroughly, then its ready to blow-dry. I'm now using extra moisturising shampoo and conditioner, because my hair isn't 'virginal' any more, but that's all it takes to keep it looking lovely still. With sideburns that grow in the same manageable direction at long last.

Now that my hair can relax, I'm taking its lead and making waves to apply the same rule to the rest of my life. This includes Glow Yoga (I'll report back soon), wedding planning (other peoples mega-stress is my fun downtime) and finding ways to sate my extreme chocolate craving without actually eating chocolate. I love a new challenge...

Claire Hair Relaxing Tips

1. When the product is on, keep combing or brushing through or you'll end up with it stuck in one parting or style.

2. Keep the product on for slightly less time than the instructions recommend. You can always re-do it if you haven't relaxed enough, but if it goes too straight, there's no going back. And too straight just doesn't look like natural hair anymore.

3. Don't use on bleached hair or put it directly on the scalp. I'd wait till you have a couple of inches hair growth.

A Side Effects Text Book

In my formative years I was a collector of bouncy balls (by my own choosing), postage stamps and spoons (those were my grandfathers preference) and stickers (me again).
In my early thirties I'm acquiring quite an impressive collection of something a bit less tangible and much more varied. If ever there was a side effect printed on a Tamoxifen leaflet, I am very likely to be experiencing it. In fact, even things that aren't printed on there, but on further research are always likely caused by Tamoxifen, can be added to my collection.

Another problem is I'm a Google-phobe when it comes to anything medical. I would rather wallow in my imagination than look up some nutjob Internet theory on how my aching toe means definite metastatic disease, caused by buying apples that come in plastic bags or putting my bed 90 degrees from the window. So I'll go a good few weeks worrying about said toe before Katie invariably looks it up and tells me it is Tamoxifen induced. (Metaphorical example; An aching toe is just about the only thing I don't have.)

So far my impressive collection consists of:
Aching joints. Or joint, since its just the one hip, but by gawd is it annoying. Before my scans it was terrifying, but now I know my cancer is contained to my nit (non-tit, remember?), its been demoted to annoying again. Serious enough to warrant an occasional 'rude boy bowl' that embarrasses DadJokes no end, and, deep breaths, makes me avoid high heels. That is serious.

Concentration issues. A testament to this is the four half written blog posts I have in production at the moment. Also the need to re-read the same paragraph of my book 3 times before I can move on. But that could equally be because its a sh!t book.

Bad eyesight. After squinting at one too many no. 38 buses I went to the optician, and sure enough, dry eyes and potential retina issues are to be expected for the next five drug taking years.

The Wobbles. A collective term that covers everything from getting disproportionately irate at the lack of order in the spice rack, to crying at Hollyoaks.

Hot flushes that would make Madonna admit her age and go into retirement. The worst part is the late night duvet battle. He wants it on I WANT IT OFF OFFFFFFFFF GET IT OFF.

Desmond has no such issues

Er, WC happenings, or not happenings as it were. Gillian McKeith would not be impressed...
I'm still waiting for the promised levelling out as my body gets used to the drugs, but since I am not a seasoned tablet-taker, I'm not sure how long I'll have to squint and sweat before my body cooperates.

In an attempt to tackle 'The Wobbles' I admitted defeat and went for some extra help. Now, I'm all for anything that will magically make me feel better, but I have a funny feeling about anti-depressant drugs since at my all girls school, a Prozac prescription was seen as a sign of extreme coolness, depth of character, and a ploy to make Mr Willis from Physics fall in love with you. I'm not sure where the reasoning comes in, but mental illness was thought to be veeery attractive in my fifth year. I couldn't get my head around it then, and still now am more prone to go the psychological route of learning coping mechanisms, than taking a pill.

When you cry at Hollyoaks, psychological care is maybe not enough, and faced with my recurrence fears being realised I signed up for some magic pills. Um, if being too tired to blink and too despondent to put effort into saying words is helpful, then I can do without thanks. The 'these tablets may make you feel worse before they make you feel better' warning on my particular leaflet did of course refer to me, (text book), but when I was still waiting for the feeling better part three weeks later I gave up and went back to good old fashioned family cuddles and Michael McIntyre on the telly. MUCH better. The good news scan results must have helped too, but I realise if I can avoid tablet taking, I will. I'm no Jennifer Saunders, although I'd love to know what she's on such that she raves about it in the papers.

My alternative therapies include retail, feline and social, so while I recover from my latest op I'm looking forward to a lot of the aforementioned, just to get me through you understand. 'Scuse me while I open a new tab; The net-a-porter sale is calling...

Keep Calm Carry On

OK, disaster averted, Christmas is back on! Which is wonderful, with a tinge of argh, since I had put everything on hold until results day, which meant a frantic SIX HOUR shopping frenzy. In Oxford Circus. (One armed). On 23rd December, which nearly finished me off in itself.

So where you left me last I had received news of cancer refuting it's eviction notice and sneaking it's tiny little cousin in through the cat flap, to start building a home just under the scar left by the old stuff. Now I am not a good receiver of bad news. I know many people aren't, but I have reached a level of lunacy whereby I not only latch onto the negative aspects of a conversation, but also think the doctors are hiding information from me or just out and out lying. So far I believed the original ultrasound doctor could see the lump was cancerous, but assured me it was fibrodanoema so I wouldn't spend the whole week worrying about biopsy results. Also the doctor who delivered the news of my non-spread to lymph nodes the first time round was either lying, or couldn't read an MRI, since it had spread there. Then there were the several family members, nurses, phone help lines and subsequent ultrasound doctor who tried to convince me this new lump was residual scar tissue from the op, only to be told um, no wrong again - its residual cancer instead.

So you see, by process of logical progression, a series of scans to determine whether new cancer had spread this time did nothing to restore my bad news receptor. A 'we don't expect it to have spread' from the surgeon loosely translates in my world to; 'there's a chance it has spread otherwise we wouldn't do the tests, plus there's been pain in your bones and liver, yes, sure it's liver pain, which obviously means it has spread, and since the small chances in the past have become reality, then this too must follow.'

I was pretty much convinced, hence zero Christmas plans. I didn't manage to utter more than seven words a day for the week-long wait for results, and my mum actually took Christmas off the menu while we all waited for my head (or liver) to explode.

Turns out I was wrong, maybe the doctors don't use lying as part of their medical practise, and this new lump, which they think is actually just old lump having another go, is treatable. The weird bit is that this Christmas I do have cancer, just like last; I'm facing another operation and in all likelihood another bout of chemo, but I'll take that, with some brandy cream and orange quality street, in light of what I could have been facing. I'm sure I would have picked myself up and battled on eventually, but after the year my family and I have had, I would've liked a bit longer for my body and brain to resume normal service in order to deal with the new level of sh!t. As so many amazing people I know of have and do, and are having joyous lovely Christmas days along with the rest of us. I have seen Twitter evidence of this feat of extraordinariness this very morning.

So one Christmas day on, and what a difference a year makes. But in some ways, not one tiny bit...Hey ho (ho ho)...

Christmas Jumper ON

Merry Christmas xxx

Happy Anniversary

The good news is I'm sort of tentatively working on a book born from this very blog. A few people have pointed me in that direction, and as cathartic as the blog has been, surely a book will be even more so, with some ego boosting and official 'authoring' thrown in. My agent (ooh!) has suggested I start from the beginning. Not remarkable in book terms, but since this blog hasn't particularly been chronological, I'm dredging my memory for how it happened in real time.

The first bit - the dreaded diagnosis - is basically impossible to forget. Reading the doctors faces before they've delivered the news, not really listening because the blood pumping in the ears situation makes it very difficult to hear.  I REALLY haven't forgotten. Not even a little bit, as much as I would have loved to. But JUST IN CASE, the god of sh!t timing has sent me a refresher course in the form of a shiny brand new bout of cancer. Even more poignant, since it came one day after the anniversary of my initial diagnosis, which anyone will tell you is a difficult day in itself.

So here I am again, holed up in my mum and dads house, awaiting tests, more tests and even more test results, already one operation down,  and yes, thoroughly very much absolutely um, not sure of the word here. I don't think there is one yet invented for the weird, jumbled, up n' down ness of such a quick recurrence.

The good news is it's not a massive shock compared to (EXACTLY) this time last year. I'm more p!ssed off, but that's far too mild a description. I went to a couple of weddings two summers ago, both of which broke down within 6 months. I felt a bit about them as I do about this - what was all the celebrating for then? I'd like a refund on my bar bill please, and I'll take that honeymoon contribution back as well thanks very much.

The worst bit is how tainted all the nice stuff seems now. What a waste. I don't think my dad can afford another hog roast for my new I'm All Better Party - and in actual fact, I don't want one. Scrap Christmas too while you're at it. From now on December officially sucks...

POSITIVE THOUGHTS TO FOLLOW...

I have a little one for now: 'more blog fodder.'

Letter Bombs

I won't go into too much detail here, since you really don't need to know the inner and outer goings on of my body on a day to day basis, but if I never have to see another one of those blue stamped NHS letters in my post cubby hole it will be too soon. Oh how they fill me with dread. So far they've ranged from 'please fill in this inpatient questionnaire' to 'you need to come in for further testing', to the point where every reading is like a postal Russian Roulette.

OK, I have planned and executed my outfit for today, I have strategically planned my day from alarm setting, to tube timings, I have left and locked up my house and picked up my post on the way out. Oh hello blue NHS envelope, welcome back to the life and times of Sophie A Beresiner. You have the potential to obliterate my entire month so now, on the 141 to London Bridge, do I open and read your contents, or do I attempt to enjoy the rest of my day with the looming dread of its contents hanging over me?

This isn't really a quandary, since I don't have the mindset of someone who can hang onto a sealed envelope and not obsess about its contents. Thus far I've received a heady mix of CC's from various oncologists and radiotherapists telling each other about the medical intricacies of my cancer. Even though I ticked the box that said DO NOT send me these letters, since I (quite correctly and astutely) worried how my overactive imagination would deal with them. I'm not sure why I'm getting them, but now I'm too chicken to put a stop to them. What if I miss out on some vital life-saving information?

Oh how I miss the days of over-inflated credit card bills and Graham & Green catalogues. I know there's something I can do about this, there must be. Short of going nuts in the Gold Label section of Tk Maxx, I'm not entirely sure what the answer is to redress the balance, but I would so like to fluff out my letterbox with normal financial worries say, and have the medical profession leave my body and mind alone, just for a few weeks at least.

Its got to a point where Dadjokes fields my mail and breaks things to me gently. He goes through some deep breathing exercises of his own, but I'm not sure if they're of the same mental space as mine, or more the 'oh lord, how am I going to sugar coat another one of these to my newly neurotic fiancé?'

It is true, we are a killer combination of Anxious and Anxious-er. Although a perfect match in many ways - hence the impending nuptials - the one place we're a bit too similar is the place not conducive to a calm after-care experience. Thus far Dadjokes' tactic is this; feign calmness, but don't succeed in fooling said neurotic fiancé, ('smeyesing' is only convincing when Tyra Banks does it), hold breath till professional/medical confirmation that initial calm stance was appropriate, break down in relieved hysteria. If this were BBC1, our dynamic would draw good viewing figures. But when its an audience of 2 cats and a sofa, drama isn't welcome on the programming schedule.

The key is of course, moi. My anxiety is a self fulfilling prophecy. So, I have a mantra, I'm trying it out for size; Don't Worry, Be Happy! (exclamation mark imperative). The thing with Mantras is they need some kind of belief system right? Or does simply repeating a phrase so many times make it true? So far, semi good. My strenuous efforts to replace 'worry' with 'happy' has seen me take up a whole load of new (and expensive) hobbies, such as excessive theatre-going and any excuse for an evening out. These things take care of the waking hours, its the nights I'm still working on. Suggestions glady received. Not drug-related though thanks. I have too many social occasions I need to be alert for...