Because when you have blond hair, and you surf, once you get out and dry off, you kind of look a lot like a manifestation of that great urban myth, Ratwoman.
I went up to the central coast yesterday, because Boyfriend and Boyfriend's Mates bought a caravan near the beach. It's grouse. (Yeah, I'm kickin the lingo. Don't hate me because I'm a savvy linguistic adaptor.) And we decided to go for a surf.
Explantation of 'Surf': The boys, they are Proper Surfers. Like, y'know, surf-every-day waxheads, and in Boxy's case, ex-pro surfers who can ride 12 foot monsters and smoke a cigar while doing so. Surfers.
Then there's me.The porky little seal schlepping down to the beach in several kilos of tight, so tight, wetsuit, (NO WOMAN LOOKS GOOD IN A WETSUIT) struggling to carry a small boat masquerading as a surfboard while simultaneously trying to look cool in front of Boyfriend's friends, and panicking about the possibility of eating salt water to the point of death, and fretting interally about the inevitibility of the sun laying on even more freckles.
I'm pretty hardcore, in other words.
The boys, they had a wicked surf. Slayed it. All of them. Ideal conditions, they said. Stunning rights, dreamy lefts and not too crowded.
Me? Oh, I had a great time. See, I never go further than the whitewash, and if the waves are gnarly in the breaking zone, i have a Bad Time. And yesterday was a Bad Time. I got repeatedly smashed in the pounding shore dumpers, was never NOT being dragged in the rip to The Dangerous Part of The Beach, and think I caught minus 7 waves in total.
So i cracked it, right, fully cracked it, and took my boat and got out to sit on the beach and catch my breath and actually find a decent spot, cause y'know, I can ride waves (okay, whitewash) and i wasn't about to let some dumbass rip win.
I get back in. I immediately get smashed. A five year old girl (okay, twelve max) on a short board passes me, paddling gracefully like some form of gentle water creature, gets out the back, turns and catches a stunning wave, pumping up and down like a mini Kelly Slater.
I decide to quit properly. The porcine seal heads back to the sand and sits with arms crossed, wondering what the hell one has to do to get a chiko roll around here.
And then seal feels her new blonde hair.
It feels about as soft as sandpaper. It's knotted. It's scratchy. It's sticking up wrong. It's awful.
So I dart back to the car (dart gives utterly the wrong visual; wobble and swear is more appropriate) and quickly rinse my hair with bottle water. (Wanker.) Then I go to my 'beach bag' and look for something to appease my sad little mop. (Still wearing wetsuit and covered in sand. There are handsome young surfy men everywhere. I, of course, pretend there are not handsome young surfy men everywhere.) There is face cream, but nothing for hair. FOOL! Someone in my head shrieks. You have a CUPBOARD FULL OF THIS STUFF, and you brought NONE.
So i did what any beauty editor would. I used moisturiser on the tips, just to coat them temporarily, and put a hat on. And then took off said hat and winced as i touched ratwoman hair all the way home.
Now i'm back, i've taken home a selection of post and pre-sun hair protective gear [KMS, Redken, Wella , Sunsilk and Kerastase] so this NEVER HAPPENS AGAIN.
I'll let you know which works next time the seal emerges for another "surf."
Because ain't no chance in hell i'm even looking at sea water again with out putting on some leave in conditioning, UV filter, stop-my-hair-snapping-off, goo.Oh look, here's a shot of me shredding.
Quiksilver? You know where to find me.
