The Soft Water Blues

It’s been a turbulent time for my hair. First of all it was moved three hundred miles without even being consulted. It knew where it was back in London. It got washed twice a week, because I never had time to do exercise or anything that would make it even remotely dirty besides simply occasionally going outside in a city with insane levels of air pollution. It had more white (not grey, white) bits than I wanted to see at the tender age of twenty seven, but the lift at my office had the best lighting for finding and removing them. I only got caught by perfect-looking staff from The White Company, with whom we shared a building, roughly every other day.

Whereas the water in London was hard, making for a delightful scum on the top of every cup of tea, and doubling the rate at which people go through toiletries because it takes more to make a lather, the water in Cornwall is soft. It’s like the newborn kitten of waters. I can drink the entirety of a cup of tea safe in the knowledge that there won’t be a crunchy bit at the bottom. I only cleaned my shower this weekend after six weeks of living here, and even then it wasn’t because of limescale, or soap scum or anything nasty, I just arbitrarily felt like it. It tastes different, maybe even sweet, but I got used to it in a couple of days.

My hair, however, has been having a nightmare. It spent the first two weeks of living here plastered to my head out of, I can only assume, fear of the unknown. It certainly wasn’t overuse of shampoo, as some have suggested, because I read an article in Mizz magazine like fifteen years ago that told me you only ever need to use a 20p-sized blob of shampoo, and that is all I’ve ever used.

I eventually fixed it by punishing it with Head and Shoulders which, I have found, will correct anything weird your hair is doing as long as you don’t mind losing a couple of layers of skin and a little bit of eyesight into the bargain. But it’s not so bad. If anything, it’s a free chemical peel, and they pay hundreds of dollars for that in Hollywood.

I guess this is really just an incredibly long-winded way of saying that Cornish Nicola looks a little bit like a scarecrow now. I don’t hate it.

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