As the week hits its hump, I wanted to share a few dreamy photographs from the weekend that was. I spend Sunday doing all sorts of Sunday things, like early morning coffee catch-up with friends, followed by Camberwell Market visits and freshly-cut flower pick-ups. I also had a little revelation that my Sundays’ are about 10 times better with a vintage-inspired Papillionaire bicycle in it. Operating not only as my newest mode of transportation, it has indeed become my latest fashion accessory. Plus the cheeky little wooden basket is the perfect level of chic and sturdy to carry all my little Sunday things.
For close to a decade now I have been struggling with the reality that is the crazy, ridiculously curly frizz that lives on top of my head (… known to some, as my hair). Some time in my pre-teen years I discovered the world of GHD (fun fact #1: acronym for Good Hair Day), and well, my ‘hair’ and I, haven’t really looked back since. So much so, that on an alarming regular basis, people who think they know me through and through don’t even know the truth about my ‘hair’. With a never-ending desire to create the perfect beach-wave/I-woke-up-like-this/al-natural/effortless/careless/maybe-she’s-born-with-it, hair situation it became apparent very early on that no excessive amount of ‘beach spray’ or ‘texture hair gel’ was going to give me my desired look. My GHD and I have been in a long-term, committed relationship ever since.
I have quite literally spent the last decade shamelessly dying my hair every single colour known to man/hairdresser… From black right through to blonde* and then back again a few times, at one point I got so desperate for new hair colours I left the ‘conventional-hair-colour-spectrum’ completely and tried my luck with deep-purple/violet (…first at age 12, and then again at 20… apparently once wasn’t enough). I’m not really sure what succumbs me each time to make such drastic hair decisions, whether it’s that I am just bored with my look every few months and need an excuse to change it up or whether it’s the Gemini in me, all those personalities… maybe they all need their own hair colour (?). Either way, every few months, like clockwork, I will have an epiphany… I simply cannot live another minute on this earth with this atrocious hair colour/hairstyle… and so, I change it.
From brunch with a babe, to beaching in style (…aka coconuts, jewels & spontaneously picked flowers…), I was pretty eager to rush home from a day at the beach to give my newest Bambi & Sammi Hair Masque a whirl. Having heard good things, you can only image my naturally curly [really just frizzy], but always straightened hair and me, were hoping for some shine, rejuvenation, maybe even a little extra bounce (?) and luckily enough – Bambi & Sammi; you cheeky babes did not disappoint. Hair felt fresh & fabulous. Only problem is – I’ve already run out!
MONDAY: We meet again… another fun-filled; cocktail-induced weekend of gallivanting around Melbourne becomes all but a distant memory. Gone are the moments of spontaneity and letting loose and all that is left is a discouraging floor-drobe reminding me of the fight I had with my wardrobe on Friday night, pre-Chapel-Street-adventures.
There is something so lackadaisical, even soul crushing about the commencement of a Monday. The sun doesn’t shine as bright on a Monday, coffee doesn’t taste as good on a Monday and well, forget about any possibility of a good hair day (especially after a big weekend of leaving your wallet at the club and your dignity on the dance-floor) because that is just not going to happen for you on a Monday.
Although there is no cure to Monday-itis, my perfectly placed (and by no means pre-organised) collection of tiffany-blue favourites is slightly subsiding the pain. Not to mention my morning tea tastes so much better served in elegant, classical, Royal Albert China…It is unlikely I will ever drink from a normal teacup again.
When I was a kid I used to get so excited for my birthday, I would start the count down around 68 days prior to the event. Every day I would remind my parents that my birthday was coming up soon, so they better start preparing for it… As if there was a chance they would actually forget my birthday… and everyday they would respond saying ‘Yes, Jessica Darling, we know, we won’t forget’. Each year my birthday would be more glorious and exciting than the last, but the minute it was over I was always so sad. Is that it? I used to think. One measly day is all I get? So one cold-winters evening, as the event was fast approaching, young innocent me formulated the perfect birthday plan. I would make my special day last a whole week (Note: the week was called Jessmikkah named after the Jewish Holiday Hanukkah) and each day would have a name making it equally as important as the last (think, Jessica Eve, Boxing Jessica Day… etcetera).
Days where I am not busy attempting to learn the importance of property law or where I am not working in an office as a paralegal pretending I am Rachel Zane (note: if you don’t understand this reference… your life has not yet begun… go and download the first season of ‘Suits’ immediately)… I like to explore the inner city suburbs of Melbourne. I put together what is almost like a photo-diary of some of the things I saw, drank and visited in Melbourne yesterday… Enjoy x
Don’t mind my hair, I just had a fight with my straightener…
My hair and me do not get along; in fact we haven’t gotten along for years. Unfortunately I was born with the condition known as naturally curly/frizzy hair. I wake up every morning with the hope that maybe today is the day… maybe today the universe has finally realised that it made a mistake all those years ago and finally it has blessed me with the hair I so desperately deserve… I am still (ever-so-patiently) waiting for that day. I am literally one bad hair moment off investing in a wig and calling it a day.
Travelling for High Maintenance, Low Tolerance People
Recently I spent time travelling during the European Winter with one of my girlfriends. Being a self-proclaimed high maintenance, low tolerance, relatively broke individual, it was important that my travel plans adhered to these somewhat limiting implications. If you are the kind of person who can book a one-way ticket to Europe taking with you a 30kilogram rucksack filled with only your essentials, then this post is definitely not for you. In fact it is unlikely that any aspect of my blog is at all for you, because the expression ‘back-packing through (*insert any European and/or exotic country here)’ and the word traveling should never ever be used in the same sentence. Unless that is you are referring to Julia Roberts’ role in ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ in which case, I really am glad all that getting in touch with nature and finding herself situation worked out for her… but it is simply not for me. Moving forward, even though I cannot stand this new craze which has recently hit the internet… where every second person feels as though their opinion will only be recognised or heard if they put their numerous opinions in number form and title their opinions ’12 Ways to Wear your Little Black Dress’ or ’15 Signs he is not the one’, I feel as though it is impossible for me to move forward without some chronological pattern to my rant. In which case…