Archive for April, 2010


warm legs

It is cold.

I figure I should preface this post with that point first.

Yesterday when I was riding the train, I noticed this guy. I think I noticed him for mainly one feature. It was not his striking blue eyes, nor his trendy looking jacket. It wasn’t even the fact that he was reading a political magazine or that his hair had that ‘I-just-got-out-of-bed-I’m-so-sexy’ look. It was more what was on his face. It was not an item of food (thank god), or a lipstick mark (also, thank god), it was his facial hair. He was the owner of a very impressive beard. It was thick, it was bushy, and despite the fact I am not one usually going for facial hair, it looked good.

My initial thought was: man, the bottom of his face must be rather warm! I could use one of them.

Yes. Strange. (But really, I am the person who claimed to have originally got a thick fringe cut to keep my forehead warm in winter, clearly neglecting the fact that winter comes with strong winds and hence, the practicality of a fringe, and reasons for its existence change from ‘keeping forehead warm’ to, ‘pissing off Amanda because it won’t sit nicely and gets blown about the place clearly wrecking any potential of a ‘good hair day’’).

Anyway, though this sounds entirely random, it has a point. And this point happens to concern appropriate dressing. After I had my little ‘I-wish-I-had-a-beard’ moment, I then mused over my inappropriate layering habits. I wish I had put on a cardigan underneath my jacket, and overtop of my long sleeved top and t-shirt combination. It reminded me of how, in the weekend paper, they had mentioned something about wearing shorts. I am aware that this doesn’t sound particular wild, or rather new, it just made me question whether I had my dates right, and whether Australia was actually situated in the southern hemisphere. Shorts. In winter. Hooray.

When I got off the train, for any casual observer, it must have looked incredibly odd. I was wearing a jacket (with a hood), jeans, and Dunlop volleys (green yay), with a t-shirt and long sleeve top. The girl next to me was wearing gladiator shoes, a pair of small black shorts, a singlet top and a cardigan. What the? Surely we’re in the same city, right?

I think I am rather confused.

I am all for shorts, in fact, I happen to own a few pairs, but I am not one to wear them in winter. I do not want to expose my legs in the rain and sleet, and have them look especially ‘chickeny’ (in terms of looking like chicken skin with all the cold goosebumps on them!).

It’s trendy now apparently. Shorts, with stockings and heels. Or stockings and boots. Anyway. Shorts. Short-shorts even. Where did this come from? And who is it that happens to dictate fashion? I am no fashion tragic. In fact, I am probably the most unfashionable person out there due to the fact I really do not like (nor appreciate) shopping, and hence my wardrobe tends to be rather outdated, but shorts seem like such a summer item. Or something you happen to wear when you are going out clubbing (like I did back when I just became legal, ha). Skirts and leggings, ok it seems understandable, but the shorts thing just doesn’t go well with me.

Don’t even get me started on jandals/thongs and the way that they flick shit up your arse when you walk in them when it’s wet outside. (clearly not literal shit, but when you walk and they do that ‘thowock’ thing and all the crap and wetness/mud off the ground gets thrown up your back, you know what I mean, don’t think I am crazy).

I remember back a few years ago, it was all about layering. You don’t just wear a singlet top, you wear multiple ones in different colours. And you don’t just wear a t-shirt. You wear a t-shirt with an open shirt, and then a cardigan, and then a jacket, and you wrap your scarf around your neck like there was no tomorrow.

Ah, fashionable post Amanda.

So anyway, things I don’t get

  1. Short skirts, and bare legs, and then ugg boots. What the. Warm feet, cold legs?
  2. Shorts, and then stockings/leggings. Wear pants? Tight pants if you must?

I think this is one of the things I won’t be succumbing to. I guess that when I dress like an Eskimo, at least I won’t be shivering on the inside, wondering why I had forgotten my cardigan. Maybe a coffee would warm the bones and my legs will be thanking me, even if they look rather unfashionable.


Yes, Officer?

The other day on the tram I was just sitting there looking aimlessly about the place (like you do) and then I noticed that, as the tram stopped, and the doors started to close, there was this guy. His eyes darting, he made a move for the exit. The doors remained shut. He stood there. Looking extremely guilty. Other than noticing his fly was undone (unfortunately I happened to be at that level (ha)), I didn’t really think much of it.

Until, behind me there loomed some shadow. Charcoal grey pants came into view, a bumbag almost knocked me sideways and I heard the distinctive ‘CAN I CHECK YOUR TICKET PLEASE?!’

Shit man.

I fumbled around in my bag, furiously wondering whether I had remembered to validate my ticket, and hoping I had a full-fare one in my reach (no more concession for me, bastards, and perhaps a reason to get back to study hmm hmm?) and pulled out the first tram ticket I had. I handed it to the lady. She gave me a quizzical look.

The date on the ticket I had given her said 08 October 2008. Oops.

(and yes, I should clear out my wallet)

I did manage to find the right one though so no fine for me. It was just that initial: ‘omg-what-have-I-done-wrong?!’ moment which threw me. I figured there couldn’t be alot I had done wrong; I was not occupying some old person seat, I was not blocking anyone with my ‘giant bag’, I didn’t have my feet on the seats etc, but still they instilled some fear. Some fear that made me wonder whether there was anything they could catch me up on.

I think also that anything associated with the police or other people wearing uniforms makes my heart beat that little bit faster.

Booze busses especially.

My first ever breath test happened to be after a huge night out and I was driving home from uni along beach road. It had been a decent 15 or so hours since I had stopped drinking, but as they waved me in I was rather nervous. I think I rambled on so much to the police lady that she actually thought I had been drinking, despite the all clear on my test.

(Me, rambling away to strangers? As if!)

I can’t help it though. WHAT IF there happens to be some alcohol in my system despite the fact i haven’t had anything to drink? And what could be worse? And considering they more than likely test for both alcohol and drugs, must I also hope I haven’t eaten any poppy seed rolls, or driven past a marijuana plantation, or fallen on a heroin needle, or mistaken my multivitamin for something stronger, or gotten too close to white powder on a toilet seat (shit, all of that sounds rather dangerous. Exciting but dangerous (lol))

I think this fear happens just because of the threat of punishment. This doesn’t result in jail time, does it? But a monetary fine I cannot afford. And I love ‘my’ car too. I think the ‘am I doing anything wrong?’ will always cross my mind.

Am I speeding? (and if so, could I claim my brakes weren’t working in my shiny car because I was on cruise control, and therefore have them chase me down the freeway as I make alarming calls to anyone who will listen?).

Do I have my seatbelt on correctly? Are all my lights working? (hopefully they won’t notice if it is in the day). Is my mobile phone anywhere near me at all? (mental note, close my inbox)

But this time (at least), I was not doing anything wrong. I was not twittering away before I crashed into the corner shop. I wasn’t trying to do my hair, or fiddling with my chair, or even trying to read my map but didn’t stop…


snip snip!

I took the plunge.

That’s right; I re-dipped my toes into the world of hairdressing. That’s not to say that I went out and undertook a hair dressing course or anything, of course not. I’m not trendy or motivated enough to do that (though perhaps I should – it might curtail my haircut disasters), but I actually went and got my hair cut. ‘Professionally’. Why, you may ask, did you put that word ‘professionally’ in quotation marks?

Simple answer.

My haircut looks like shit. No exaggeration.

I don’t know. Perhaps this is why I have avoided going and getting it cut professionally – because ultimately, every time I have been and paid legitimately hard-earned money, I have ended up with something I am so unhappy with, it makes me want to get out the electric shaver (or razor, or epilator perhaps? Ouch!) and start again. Oh dear.

Does that sound rather drastic? Even to me, who tends to exaggerate much, it does. But oh my.

I know hair grows, but there is only so long I can hide in my house before I run out of food and/or entertainment.

(I am still considering a hat option)

I’ve been told to experiment with hairdressers to find one I like, but, knowing how cheap I am, and how I only tend to get my hair cut on sporadic occasions when I get to the point where I am all ‘shit, I look more feral than usual’, I’ve been unable to accomplish such a feat.

Now, it’s not like I have been walking around for months with split ends and something which resembles a bird’s nest. I have, admittedly had my hair cut – it just happens to have been done by my mother. I figure she can cut in a straight line, and make comments like ‘your hair feels dry, what product do you use?’ (yes, she does humour me as she is the one who buys the shampoo, ha), and at least this option appears to be cheaper (literal cash costs vs. annoying mum comments), however, apparently in the long term, this leaves the hairdressers with even more work to do and hidden disasters to fix.

The other weekend I went into Just Cuts after bypassing many other salons with fancier names (and even fancier prices). All I wanted to see was whether I could get my fringe trimmed, a bit of length taken off, and whether they thought anything else would make me look nicer. Mousetrap had a similar price, but after a dirty look from a trendy hairdressing Asian (I’m not racist, really) Just Cuts seemed alright.

I told the lady I needed length because I had a fat head – she cut it just below my shoulders. I told her I liked a longish fringe, but one which I could still see from underneath, demonstrated how much I normally take off when I am at home and sat back. She cut my fringe short. Short. Too short.

‘How do you like it? It looks good?’ she smiles. Probably because she knows she is about to take $40 off me despite the ‘job’ she did on my hair.

‘Why yes, I quite admire your scissor wielding abilities, I LOVE my haircut’. I lie. And smile. It seems like the easier thing to do as I am aware she is still holding her cutting implements and angering someone who holds the power is really not going to help my lost cause anyway.

Good thing I am no Pinocchio or else, on top of an ugly haircut, I would be subject to seven years bad luck…

I don’t know, it seems simple enough that I should have done it myself or again, called on my mother to utilise her scissors. Maybe, in the end I just wanted to have someone else fuss over me. An attempt to make myself look a tiny bit better.

Though considering the fringe is short enough that my feral eyebrows are now in clear view, another trip to the salon is needed! Maybe I could even pay another exorbitant amount (ok, I shall admit slight exaggeration) and get it dyed a paint colour to make it look arty? There’s an idea.

Oh, and btw, i know it has been too long between drinks (if anyone cared). Hopefully my typing has not suffered. I hope a lovely Easter , new years, and Christmas was enjoyed!

And fuck, I am now 22. (Lol)

April 2010
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