Dear me

I've got more hair on the left-hand side of my head than on the right-hand side.
I know this because I've been told so by various hairdressers, the most recent just yesterday when I was having my hair cut.
They've also told me that this condition is really common but I can't say I'm convinced.
I mean, I've never had one person say, "Yeah, me too," when I've mentioned it in conversation, which admittedly I don't do very often because then everyone would know I have a sub-standard scalp.
Sometimes I wonder if my life would've turned out differently if my hair follicles had been more evenly distributed.
As in, maybe people would take me more seriously.
Maybe the asbestos-fence removers wouldn't have dicked me around for six weeks if I'd been able to say from the get-go, "Listen mate, you're dealing with someone who has an exceptional follicle-to-skin ratio."
As it was, the bloke on the other end of the phone kept me waiting for ages, called me "dear" five times in 90 seconds and then instructed me to jiggle my phone plug in the socket because there was interference on the line and it had to be at my end because, "It was fine until you rang, dear."
Follicularly unbalanced as I am, my brain was urging me to tell him that Dear would be popping over shortly to rip out his voice box via his rectum and maybe go over a few points he'd failed to assimilate at customer-service school.
But seeing as his was the only asbestos removal company I could find in the phone book, I said things like "Thank you" and "Sorry" and "No worries" instead.
Not that it made any difference. I ended up calling him three more times, was called "dear" a total of 21 times and was eventually sent a red herring called Les.
Les knocked on the door and said he'd be here to remove the fence on the Wednesday or, no, hang on, probably the weekend, depending on the kids' sporting fixtures.
That was three weeks ago.
Then my husband rang and, hey, guess what, two blokes came round the very next morning and removed the fence.
In the meantime, in an effort not to go completely insane, I've been busy establishing an Unbalanced Head Support Group. You're welcome to join even if your head's normal.

Does my bum look radiant in this?

Back on the subject of make-up, I had a gift voucher burning a hole in my pocket and decided to splurge on some YSL Touche Eclat concealer. I did this because I wanted to optimise my radiance, having read in an ad that Touche Eclat does just that.
Even though, deep down, I've known for some time that my radiance could do with some help, I haven't bought Touche Eclat before now because it costs $78. Which makes me feel a bit faint, especially as you can get perfectly serviceable Maybelline under-eye concealer for 14 bucks.
But then, Maybelline under-eye concealer doesn't cure cancer, boost your libido or give 99 per cent of its profits to Oxfam's goat-gifting scheme.
Neither does Touche Eclat but according to all reports it's still brilliant.
I know this because I've read dozens of reviews of the product on the internet and I honestly haven't seen so many exclamation marks in my life as I have in the descriptions of Touche Eclat.
So, seeing as I had 40 bucks left on the gift voucher - meaning I only had to part with $38 of my own money - I bit the bullet and decided to banish dark shadows forever.
The girl at the YSL make-up counter told me that for Touche Eclat to be totally effective, I needed to apply some white stuff (the name of which I can't remember) to the under-eye area first and it only cost $100, would I like some of that too?
Thinking "Why break the habit of a lifetime?" I said I'd rather be partially effective but she still applied both products anyway.
And the difference was really quite scary in that I looked like a 50-something head with a 30-something under-eye radiance thing going on.
So I bought the Touche Eclat. At my age you take what you can get. And if that means being scary, radiant and partially effective, then so be it.

Chug-a-hug

Being grabbed by people I don't know very well has never done much for me. Neither am I very good at this hugging-as-a-hello thing that's become so fashionable in the last ten years.
I think my problem stems from growing up in Yorkshire where public displays of touching one another happened only at birthdays and burials, and even then only if you were wearing a coat.
As time has passed I've got much better at hugging people I've only just been introduced to, but I still freak when someone invades my personal space in a major way.
Which is why I always walk down the middle of the aisles in the Myer cosmetics' department, in much the same way as I've always walked down the middle of the street if it's after dark and I'm on my own.
But this seems to be working less and less. A few weeks ago I looked briefly at some of this new mineral foundation that's advertised endlessly on TV (it apparently makes your complexion look "flarless", which is American for perfect).
Three seconds later I'd been grabbed, half my face was covered in it and the girl wielding the brush was telling me it would look even better - "Like, you'll get that total doll look" - if I applied it over the top of normal foundation. Sort of like brick veneer for the face, I suppose.
Even when I said, "I'm 56 years old - why would I want to look like a doll?" - she didn't pause for breath, just launched into a spiel on the importance of brushing in a circular motion.
By the time I escaped, one side of my face was very beige and "flarless", and the other wasn't. I looked like a Kingston biscuit after someone had licked off the filling.
Funnily enough, no one stopped and asked me if I wanted a hug.

The gorgeousness that's Cameron Cloke

He's the one on the right and don't ask me how I managed to cut off half his body when I uploaded the pic - I'm still new and useless at this blogging business.
Anyway, if you ask me, Cam is football's answer to George Clooney.
So grab your pompoms and repeat after me:
Cameron, Cameron, you're the one.
You make football so much fun.
G-O-O-O-O CAMERON.
Please don't spoil the moment by adding comments that include the words "kicked in" and "nuts".
Instead be thankful, as I am, that it's only 15 more sleeps until Carlton meets the Tigers at the MCG.
Go the Blues...
PS: Click on the pic and you'll get the full monty. This will be quicker than waiting for my husband to get home from work so I can ask him where I stuffed up.