I think it's the weather. Isn't it a cruel joke that of all the places in all the world where I could've ended up — me, a summer-hating, temperate-zone kinda girl who wants to shrivel up in humidity and who longs to hear the rain — I've ended up in Southern California where there is so little rain we don't even have gutters on our houses.
Or maybe it's the hair. I'm trying to grow it — against the sage advice of darling Maggie, into whose keeping I entrusted it seventeen years ago, and who has kept it looking wonderful for almost all that time, even when I'm over here.
She told me I'd hate doing this. She'll be saying 'I told you so!' as she reads this. And laughing.
I've had short hair for yearsnyears and now — in a sudden post-menopausal, let's-live-a-little-before-I-become-totally-invisible-and late-middle-aged kind of rebellion — I've decided to let it grow. Just shoulder length. I just fancy being able to swoosh it into a ponytail or up into a loose knot.
So I'm at that suicidal stage with it right now. It's horrendous. I have to wear a headband to keep it out of my eyes. Very daggy. It's not long enough to tie back, but it's too long to stay where I want it. It's driving me completely nuts and Maggie, who is now wagging her finger at me, told me this was exactly what I'd be putting up with.
And should I keep colouring it? I'm about three-quarters grey, and in my former life I was really dark brown. So if I grew out the seasonal adjustments, I'd be salt and pepperish which is not good. Especially when it's blotchy.