Unfortunately for both me and those close to me, I woke up really sick on Saturday. When I say ‘really sick’, I mean I was ill enough to watch straight-to-video movies all day, but not so sick I cancelled my pre-Christmas hair appointment — I just propped myself in the salon while I paid a woman to bleach my scalp into a pulpy oblivion. People with white blonde hair will understand what I mean.
I work in an exceptionally cool office with exceptionally young staff with robust bodies that seem to be able to handle 4am finishes on a night out followed by a full, productive work day. I made the foolish mistake of thinking I could keep up with such festivities and, on Saturday morning, my body rebelled by refusing to work (other than to deliver me to the hair salon and back). I’m not 21 anymore and I shouldn’t attempt to party like one. I no longer just feel a bit ropey the next morning, but instead, my body shuts down for days.
In short — I did it to myself. But that doesn’t mean to say I didn’t moan about it at every opportunity.
The first thing on my Sick Person agenda was to shuffle into the kitchen with a forlorn look on my face and to sadly look at yoghurt (soothing for a sore throat, probably) in the fridge. My flatmate, naturally, asked if I was feeling ok. I put on a brave face and sadly shook my head before croaking that I’d be ok. I’m a bit of a soldier like that.
The day continued with a Netflix marathon, during which I watched a terrible film called A Royal Christmas, which I’d rather forget if you don’t mind. Nobody is ever ill enough to sit through that kind of mind-mush.
Later, like a trouper, I walked into town — wearing an unfathomably big jumper to indicate I was sick, of course — with a mission to get some fresh air and get some chemicals poured liberally over my hair and scalp. The walk was uncomfortable to say the least because, as soon as I’d got far enough away from my apartment that turning back wasn’t really an option, my stomach decided it was ill, too. I started to question if my hair appointment was really worth the intense discomfort and the possible humiliation that threatened. I made it, unscathed, and spent the next three hours napping in a salon chair, occasionally being prodded to lift my chin this way or that.
One thing you might not know about having your hair bleached white is that, sometimes, it makes your hair go really purple for a couple of days. That happened on Saturday. I’ve never felt older in my life. I had a purple rinse, my highly unfashionable glasses on (because I can’t wear my contacts when I nap) and a knitted jumper on and was suffering badly because I tried to keep up with the lifestyle habits of a bunch of twenty-somethings all week. If that doesn’t make you feel like an old hag, I don’t know what will.
Partly because I was feeling sorry for myself and partly because I was still a wreck of a person, I took the tram home (hood up to hide my hair obvs, despite the fact the heating made me feel hotter than the sun) and had a really long nap. But not before sending a bunch of Tweets and Whatsapps to tell everyone I was SO SICK. Because there’s no benefits in being sick if you can’t at least reap a little sympathy from friends and strangers alike. Where’s the fun in just recuperating? No. When you’re sick, everyone should suffer a little with you.
