...however there is

...one thing the New Peas would do.

And that's buy a fucken pimpin' pair of hair tongs.

Hair has never been my bag. I keep it long so that I can put it up. It's that simple. Leaving it down means one thing: small animals can make themselves at home, if I stand still long enough. It's not super straight, and it's not curly either. It's irritatingly in-between.

I just can't be bothered with hair. Frankly, there are other more important things to do. I am always both aghast and awe-struck at normal women who actually use their blowdryers and get up three hours earlier in the morning to make their hair all beautiful and lovely.

I take about 2.5 minutes, and yes, it shows. But frankly, who has the fucking time ladies? Where do you get off?

Anyway. That was the Old Peas talking. I've come up with a solution. And it'll knock yer tits off.

The solution for hair has to be simple:
1)It must take no less than 10 minutes to do
2)It must work good and proper. None of this half-arss shit, where after 10 minutes you might as well have just whacked on a hair net and got on with business.
3)It must take me longer to brush my teeth basically. This cannot be reiterated enough.

In which case, I have been advised by my female minions that a good hair straightening iron is what I should possess.

I've had hair tongs. I own a fucking hairdryer. Do you think I use these useless appliances?
No. They do a half-arss job and take more than an hour. Fuck that for a joke.

I was told I need one of those 'ghd' hair irons. That cost, oh my wet non-existent testicle bag, R2 500. I could get a week's ski pass in Saalbach for that. Get the fuck out of here.

So I bought one that does the same job as a 'gdh' (notice the lower case: these hair tongs are so pretentious, you could take them to The Palms and call it your new best gay friend.)

I got another set, the cheapo knock-off pair. One swoop through my unmanageable locks, and my hair is straighter and shinier than a horse's mane in a dressage competition. And it didn't cost me my kidney.

I'm Stokahontas.

One, one swoop with my cheap[er] knock-off tongs, and I'm a different woman. It took me ten minutes as promised to turn my crowning glory into a fucking masterpiece.

Interestingly, because I usually hate reading manuels, but it said :Achtung! Attention! Note! Don't be alarmed if you see smoke. The temperature can rise to 230 degrees, this is normal.

Normal people don't mind frying their hair follicles, I see.

And then I bought some extra bits and pieces for my New Winter Look – which I might add someone told me I looked very 'London' on Saturday night – which should work a treat when I'm actually there – so right now, The New Peas is unfolding.

And since I had a 7:30am meeting this morning, the least I could do is actually look good, right?

PS: I'm preparing for the ultimate chav hunt in London in two weeks. My mates reckon I'm going to get punched, or perhaps even killed. The thrill of living on the edge always gets me going. The Dove says if I set up a ripped DVD table outside 'Arrods, they'll flock to my stall and if I'm dressed in a tracksuit, they might talk to me and buy my ripped DVDs. Ten out of ten for originality, but this seems a little impractical. Must coin another plan. Might make the trip to Croydon over one of the weekends.