Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Hat Hair In London

The last time I was in London, I got dreadful sick.

I realize you think I should have said "dreadfully", but I think that sounds affected.

London in February is colder than the North Pole I'm sure. It's painfully cold. It was all I could do to not wear a ski mask whenever I went outside.

My husband had a goofy looking black watch cap that I wore all the time, along with my long johns, black wool sweater, black wool trousers, black boots and long black wool coat and of course, gloves. Frankly, I guess I looked like a terrorist but I didn't care.

The problem in really cold climates is that everybody heats the indoor spaces so you nearly die from heat prostration when you walk inside. Walking in freezing cold weather and then walking into an overheated space makes one perspire freely. I am not comfortable with being sweaty. In fact I find it downright distasteful.

This also creates a hat hair problem. I think most of us know what hat hair looks like. Since I wear my hair quite short, shoving a wool watch cap on it is not a problem. The problem is that if I take the hat off, it will look like I'm wearing a fright wig. If I do not take it off, perspiration will drip down my face in to my eyes and continue on down to drip off my chin. That is not an elegant look at all.

I've never had this happen in Paris. Even if it's cold, I look great there. In London? Not so much.

To top all this off, I got food poisoning my last evening in London. My husband had to get a doctor to come to the hotel to treat me. I truly thought I was dying. The doctor told me I was dangerously dehydrated and gave me about 3 shots, some pills, and a warning not to fly for at least 48 hours. Drugged up a bit, I slept for an hour, felt better and said "Let's go home!"

I pulled on my black uniform along with my black hat and we raced to the airport to catch our flight. I sat in a seat at the airport with perspiration seeping down from under my hat and dripping off my chin while Alex checked us in. An Englishman tried to chat me up. I guess he thought it might be romantic to boink a sick prostitute one last time before she died. Or maybe I just looked like I had one good romp left in me.

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