[Wearing: ♥ River Island skirt ♥ Dorothy Perkins sweater ♥ Kate Spade shoes]
Happy Christmas, everyone!
I hope you all had a wonderful day, if you were celebrating. We had a lovely, relaxing Christmas, marred only by… well, by ME, basically, and the kind of Random Acts of Stupidity I almost always manage to introduce into an otherwise fun and totally normal occasion. GOD.
I actually committed my first Random Act of Stupidity on Christmas Eve, when, as I mentioned in my last post, we were hosting a little birthday/Christmas party for Terry’s side of the family. Well, we had a lovely time with them, and when they left, we jumped in the car and headed to my parents’ place to continue the festivities. Upon arrival, however, it was instantly discovered that my skirt? My lovely, green skirt, which was on its inaugural outing, having arrived just a few days earlier? That skirt was now decorated with a giant stain, which I am assuming to be coffee, but which could honestly be just about anything, knowing me.
And so the scene was set.
“Strip,” ordered my mum. I headed to my room and removed the skirt, so it could go straight into the washing machine (The stain came out, thankfully, so all was not TOTALLY lost…), then I changed into the jeans and sweater I’d brought with me to wear on Christmas morning: a sweater which, I found, had ALSO picked up a giant, mysterious stain (Which I ALSO suspect to be coffee, actually. I should cut back on the coffee, huh?). There was no option at that point but to either wear it as it was, or change immediately into my Christmas day outfit, and I felt I’d ruined enough clothes at that point, so I decided not to risk it. “This day is a curse on clothes!” I declared, as I headed to bed that night, but really, I think it’s ME that’s the curse on clothes, I mean, SERIOUSLY.
Fast-forward to Christmas Day, when I DID decide to risk wearing the gold skirt shown above. I’m happy (and also relieved) to report that no clothes were harmed in the making of this post, however: Christmas passed without incident, and I didn’t spill, tear or otherwise ruin anything I was wearing. It was a true Christmas miracle, people! Books will one day be written about it! Well, blog posts, anyway. Probably just this one, though.
The day itself was a lovely one: we got up fairly early and exchanged gifts, then lazed around while my mum put together the masterpiece that is her Christmas table (My favourite part of this year’s production was the personalised place settings, which consisted of clear Christmas baubles, each with photos of us inside. There’s a”nice” photo on one side of each bauble,and then a “funny” one on the other side. I’ve photographed the nice ones for this post, but those baubles are now hanging on my Christmas tree, so I’ll try to get a photo of the other sides soon…), and my dad slaved away in the kitchen on a masterpiece of a Christmas dinner. (Highlight: sparklers in the baked Alaska!)
So, Christmas was every bit as fabulous as I could have wished, basically.
It was on Boxing Day that it all started to go wrong.
Before I go any further here, a little bit of foreshadowing:
Remember that house-warming/Christmas party we’re having? That party is tomorrow. TO.MORROW. And Terry has basically invited every single person we know, and also some people we don’t know. I’m pretty sure the postman and the guy who delivers our weekly Tesco shop are coming, for instance. And they’re in the “people we know” category.
Also: remember that Second Head I sometimes get? I wrote about it in this post, but just in case you can’t be bothered going back and reading all 5,839 words of that post, allow me to sum it up here for you, in a handy, bulleted list:
♦ I have two heads.
♦ One of them is actually a spot.
♦ It’s a spot that appears only when I have some kind of special event planned: the kind of thing you want to look your best for, say.
♦ It’s a spot that has no head of its own, so you can’t squeeze or otherwise reduce it. It also can’t be concealed with makeup, so when it appears, you have no option but to just give it a name and accept that there are two of you now.
♦ It has ruined (aesthetically, at least) almost every important event I’ve ever experienced, since I was about 18. It was there in the centre of my forehead for my graduation ball, and the ceremony which followed it (REALLY glad my parents didn’t spring for the official photos of THAT day…), and also for my first day at my first “real” job. (I had to introduce myself to all my new colleagues with the words, “Hi, I’m Amber, and this is my second head. I call him ‘Jim’!” That was the job where everyone referred to me as “the weird girl” and no one would sit with me in the break room…) I was so convinced the second head would ruin my wedding that I bought up the entire spot-cream section of Boots a few weeks before the event (I knew nothing would work on the Second Head, but hope dies hard), and had my hairdresser on standby to cut me an emergency fringe, should the need arise. As it happened, however, that was the ONE time I didn’t get a second head: instead, I got RED WEALS around my eyes, and spent my wedding looking like I’d been punched in both eyes, and had been up all night crying over it. I’m not joking when I tell you I have certain acquaintances who I don’t think have EVER seen me without some kind of facial disfigurement, so reliable is the arrival of The Head.
So. You know about my party, and you know about my second head. I expect by this point you’ve probably put two-and-two together, and could finish this post on your own (Hint: I like to over-use ALL CAPS for dramatic effect), but let me take you back to yesterday morning, a.k.a. “The Last Time I Felt Normal, Albeit Only for a Few Seconds”.
Yesterday morning I woke up, stretched, reached my hand up to brush my hair out of my eyes, and…
Yup, there it was: my old nemesis THE SECOND HEAD had come back to haunt me.
I knew it was there without even looking in the mirror (Actually, I’d have known it was there without even touching it. I’d have known from the fact that it was two days before a big party: how could I NOT have a second head for it?), but I went to the bathroom to check it out anyway, and it was there I discovered the true horror of my situation:
Folks, there were THREE HEADS. Three EXTRA heads, I mean: one slap in the middle of my forehead (FIGURES), one slightly off to one side and, the pièce de résistance, a third “head” right in the centre of one cheek. THAT’S a new touch!
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!” I cried, rushing back into the bedroom and waking Terry from his peaceful slumbers. “I have THREE HEADS! What’s HAPPENING to me? Do I have the plague? Is that still a Thing?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Terry. “You KNOW we have that party on Saturday. You MUST have expected to grow at least ONE more head for it?”
And yes, I mean, I HAD. But I hadn’t expected THREE, and honestly, I was NOT HAPPY with the terrible situation I now found myself in. In fact, I think it messed with the inside of my head as well as the outside, because there’s just no way for me to relate the rest of this story without making myself sound like a complete and utter dumbass. I’m going to do it anyway, but please know that a) I am not looking for advice, here: I’ve done my research, and read all of the tips, and yeah, unless I change the party to a masked ball (Ooh!), I’m basically screwed, and, b) I could not possibly feel stupider if I tried.
With that said:
I used it.
I used too much of it.
Now I have a giant red, flaky patchy of skin on my cheek, in addition to the three extra heads (none of which look even SLIGHTLY better than they did yesterday). It’s basically a small burn. It’s not a serious enough burn for me to require medical attention or anything like that, and it will obviously heal in time, but it’s probably going to get worse before it gets better, and also, I HATE MYSELF.
Unless there is some kind of miracle overnight, there’s going to be no hope of covering this mess with makeup. The heads on my forehead I guess I could cover with my weird fake fringe (But… weird! And fake!), but honestly, I’d be better off just sticking a bag over my head. And I know, I know: people always say that no one notices these things, and that they look worse to you, than to anyone else. But my second heads aren’t like that. They’re the kind of disfiguring lumps that distort your face to such an extent that people look at them and immediately say, “Ooh, that’s a nasty lump on your head! How did you do that, then?” and then spend the rest of the conversation speaking to the second head, not the first. Also, when I walked into the living room following the TCP incident, my mum and Terry both fell over backwards in shock. It is THAT BAD.
Still, to put things in perspective, and also to stop you all from scolding me: it could be worse. The terrible weather over the past few days has caused havoc across the UK, and I know a lot of people are having a really awful time of it right now, so despite the drama, I’m lucky to only have
two three four heads to worry about. Some people don’t have ANY heads, after all. And that whole ‘Masked Ball’ idea is really starting to grown on me…