Panic attacks and patch tests!

Today feels like an internal reset. I haven’t taken any pills in 24 hours, and—no surprise—I’m exactly where you’d expect be to be: sat outside my favorite matcha café, my table bathed in a crack of sunlight. I practically inhaled my drink in one blissful, overzealous sip. That Earl Grey matcha has yet to loose its crack-like qualities…

The pop girlies I absolutely have sex dreams about have just dropped new music, just in time to provide a flirty soundtrack for my upcoming trip abroad later on next week… Which promises to be equal parts exciting, fortuitous, and wildly anxiety-attack-inducing —I want to die—. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Before I depart, there’s my long-overdue maintenance checklist to get through. First and foremost, I must address my roots that cast a dark shadow, dampening my desired blonde halo. My trusted go-to hairdresser of the last couple years has relocated salons, so I’m venturing into unknown territory this afternoon for a consultation and patch test (which she applied behind the ear, on my old otoplasty scar!) This new salon, entitled The Chapel, sounds less like a hair salon and more like a vanity project with a messiah complex. (I jest. The salon is actually gorgeous, like a high fashion, swanky club). Let there be light(ened roots). The salon chair isn’t so different from a confessional booth—both places where you sit, spill secrets, and leave feeling lighter.

It’s funny how common it is these days for objectively “cool” places to be named after churches? In the same vein, I know some brilliant artists who work at the tattoo studio’s Come to church and The Church of England. Still, I’m not grumbling, have you seen my cross tattoos? Lol. I’m not above a little tongue-in-cheek biblical subversion —esp when it’s executed in good taste. Didn’t Dasha make Catholicism hot again anyways? Julia also muses about it, along with her Italian herratige in Down the drain too. Though much like Julia, I find religion to be a bittersweet form of control, that doesn’t have a great track record re women’s subordination… Or child sex crimes lol.

Today the weather is only pleasant, not exactly warm. The air still feels damp from last nights pelting rain. I’m layered up in a wool-knit, V-neck varsity-style Fred Perry jumper, once oversized, but now we’ll call it “grown into” from washing machine shrinkage. A petite size 4, khaki-green tennis skirt hangs on my proud hipbones. Completed with a sleek, soft black leather trench, that despite being a couple years old, still maintains its rich leathery fragrance. Accessorised with black leather, heeled Blundstone boots and a burgundy-red leather Galliano for Dior, archival, circa mid 00’s, shoulder bag, with chunky silver hardware inspired by nipple-ring piercings. Yes, I am a vegan who wears leather. Because I believe leather goods fast outlive fake leather, which is composed of plastic, doesn’t age well and ends up in landfill anyways. I do try to buy fewer but better-quality clothes. Obviously, no one’s perfect and money can be a roadblock, but I’m pretty sure it was Vivienne Westwood who said, “Buy less, choose well.” Timeless wisdom.

Ordinarily, this new salon—The Chapel—charges by the hour: £80, to be exact. Slightly terrifying, though perhaps justified by the biblical-level hair miracles they perform? Developing bleach takes time, and time is… evidently expensive. Luckily, since I’ve agreed to be a hair model for my stylist, I’m receiving the treatment for free— paying only £30 to cover the cost of products, which is obviously amazing. I’ll still be blessed with my usual head of tightly packed, icy blonde slices. The only difference is that her new senior stylist will be demonstrating different application techniques with new products, using my hair as a kind of living canvas. The idea of two people buzzing around my head is slightly unnerving, but more than worth the minor discomfort.

Hopefully the result is enough to justify the price hike that comes along with this new salon. Though I’m a firm believer in the importance of investing in one’s appearance. Which is second best to invest in, after one’s education (and prescription drugs, obviously). Come on—this is me. I can’t be too serious.

Next on my self-maintenance hit list: nails. After growing mine naturally long for my birthday with the help of gel manicures, I ended up letting the gel grow out before removing it rather haphazardly (violently) at home. Causing much damage to my nail beds. I’ll do anything not to pay for gel removal. Predictably, my nails are now in ruin. I miss having long nails, but can’t deal with the fragility of my real nails, the fact that if just one breaks they all have to be cut short is just too traumatising and fussy. But instead of moping, I’m making a dramatic return to nail extensions for the first time in almost a decade. I cannot wait. Long nails seem to provide an extension to my personality. It’s super fun to be all emotive, flaunting a beautiful manicure. Because of the damaged caused to my hand-skin by excessive ocd driven hourly handwashing, I am self conscious of my hands. Which at their worst look rough and lizardy. I carry multiple hand creams in my various handbags at all times — yet none of them really seem to work…

One of my favorite things to do abroad is lounge on a shaded lounger at the beach, skin shimmering with glitter-infused SPF, reading something deeply revealing (but aesthetically cohesive) in a tiny bikini that shows off the body I’ve sculpted through a bizarre but effective mix of discipline, veganism, and low-grade self-starvation.

Though, this is the first year in over a decade that I’m not technically underweight. I have a normal BMI. Gasp. I know, I know—devastating news. Cancel me now! But, actually? I come bearing good news: you can be a healthy BMI and still look hot. I don’t actually look any different! — and believe me, I’d be the first to know. My hip bones still jut out through my tightly stretched stomach skin like they’re trying to escape! Honestly, my consistently unchanging weight since age 14 was perfectly unnatural, gaining a little weight in adulthood was always inevitable. And after ten years of preparation? I’m okay with it.

Also: Addison’s new album: Addison? Obsessed. It’s pure hot-girl music to do coke to. Except, instead of snorting lines through a cut-up paper straw, I’m sipping matcha through one. Sorry I actually can’t go a day without mentioning coke —and that vulnerability and honesty is probably what keeps me accountable and sober, so allow me to pine. I’ll be fine. TBH get worried when I stop joking about it. At that rate I’d have nothing to talk about lololol.

Last on the pre-travel checklist: books. I need to make a Foyles trip and curate a perfect little reading list—titles that function as both intellectual nourishment and an accidental psychoanalysis for anyone looking — so everyone in a ten mile radius with eyes. It’s always fun to let strangers on the beach wonder what the hell you’re thinking, lying there nearly naked, radiant and a little sweaty, with a salacious, subversive political memoir held in the clawed fingers of my left hand.

…Omg talking of politics, this Elon, Trump bitch fight is so camp, I’m thoroughly entertained. Who’s gunna win? The pedo or the druggie!

Lastly, I have designed new promotional stickers and I’m so excited!!!