Archive | June, 2014

I am looking for Kate Moss in the mirror

20 Jun

Kate moss

And the first sightings of premature mid-life crisis have happened. I have finally succumbed to hair highlights after resisting them my whole life. This is what happens when you spend a summer with your mother in the fashionable parts of london.

My older one tells me my hair is awfully boring because I am one of the few women my age she knows who refuses to touch colour to her hair. My mother who was perfectly satisfied with my natural hair colour until now, comes to London and joins my daughter in a tirade against my virgin (to colour treatment)hair.

All this is, of course, is not something one needs to blog about but what needs to be put in ink is the fact that my mother got inspired after looking at a picture of Kate Moss and decided it was time her daughter did something to her hair. Because the only thing that is keeping me from looking like Kate Moss is my hair colour.
Mother walked me to a picture of Kate Moss at the Superdrug store and suggested with a straight face that I should get highlights like her. Armudpusttadgumph!
But mom that is Kate Moss. Look at her skin and hair colour.
So what? What’s good for Kate Moss is good for you.

Okay then. I am on my way to embracing my inner Kate Moss at a chic salon where I am sitting with my heart in my mouth and waiting for balayage (that’s what it is called these days) results to show. Highlights are passé’ it seems and in London everybody is doing Ombre’/Balayage.

I would not usually yield to someone urging me to colour my hair if I was still in my twenties. But at this juncture in my life, there is little that you can change, yes? I mean you can’t change your house or your city or your job (especially if you are jobless like me) or your husband family or even your name. So then the only thing left to change is your hair really.
And so it is, that I find myself sitting in a salon chair, sipping my coffee and counting minutes till I see Kate Moss in the mirror.

I have spent the better part of last night googling ideal hair colour highlights for Asian skin and I am only getting images of Lucy Liu and Kim Kardashian. Yes there is no escaping Kim K on Google regardless of what words you key in in the search engine. Try writing ‘typewriters’ or even ‘toilet cleaners’ and I am certain it will throw up at least a picture or two of Kim Kardashin.

The spouse has taken the girls to Peppa Pig world and the mother is shopping at Oxford Street I believe, leaving me to my fate.
My brief to Nicole, who is doing my hair as I type this, is to be conservative and do anything that will keep me from looking like an Arab (**)
She gets me. Her colleagues find my racist comment funny.
But I would rather be politically incorrect than look like an Arabian chick with kohl rimmed eyes and red/bleached tones on my head.
The truth is that it is unlikely that I can be mistaken for an Arab in London, irrespective of hair colour, because I have not arrived here in a private jet. Nor do I move around in a Bentley or Rolls.
It is only Harrods then, that I will have to stay away from if I come out looking like one of them. That I can manage because I don’t care much for Harrods anyway.

Disclaimer- **I think that Arab women are beautiful but it just isn’t my sensibility. Given my skin tone and hair colour I could easily pass off as one, hence the fear.


London Diaries

13 Jun

Hyde Park

Started my second day in London in a salubrious way with a walk in Hyde Park. I am here practically every summer and yet I have never given a morning constitutional in the park so much a consideration. After walking around the streets of London through the day and dining out every night, somehow languishing in bed the next morning always seemed like a more lucrative proposition than putting my chassis through the trouble of a drill in the park.

But this time around, things are different. For one, my mother who rises before the morning sun is with us. Second, we are staying at a cousin’s vacant flat hence no room service or housekeeping.  Of course this does not bode too well for me because it means that I have to drag my lazy body out of bed and fix the kids their breakfast.

This morning mother and I have avowed to go back to India looking skinny, sans any holiday weight in manner of the two famous Ethiopian ladies Victoria Beckham and Angelina Jolie.

Hence, together we are embarking on a healthy diet and a daily exercise routine starting today. Leaving the kids in the television’s husband’s care, we walk across to the park with a sense of purpose.

It is a gorgeous morning and there is a cool breeze blowing, the kind that encourages one to run without feeling any exhaustion. Hyde Park is at the peak of its summer’s glory and playing host to cheerful little babies in their buggies, unleashed doggies giving their owners a chase and rare birds flocking around the Serpentine Lake. Beautiful flowers in all conceivable colours are shooting forth with abandon from every little verdant corner of the expansive landscape.

The beauty of the English summer is that it is a summer in awe of itself and like no other summer anywhere else in the world. This summer’s day in the park is begging to be photographed by my Instagram lens. I am torn between maintaining my heart rate and clicking pictures with my phone while my mother is torn between walking in brisk steps and running around the park as if on rocket fuel.

I could live in the moment and admire nature’s pulchritude and instead of taking pictures with my phone but living in the moment is so last season. If you have not clicked it and preserved it for posterity, it has not happened to you. I will work out another day, I tell myself and go about clicking rare birds, dogs and flowers that cross my way and instantly uploading them on Instagram because if you have not shared it on social media it has not happened to you either.

I hear someone call my name and turn around to find a familiar face that belongs to a school mom whose name I cannot recall because of my advanced Alzheimer’s. We chat about the school and about how everybody we know is in London and promise to catch up again soon. I do not have the heart to tell her I do not even know her name as I sprint along.

Close to the Serpentine Lake cafe, I run into a friend whose irreverent wit and company induces fits of laughter, both in the mother and myself. Sadly we have no money on us to buy ourselves coffee and nor does he.

Later in the day, the children and I are digging into fish and chips at a restaurant in Bayswater while mother is sticking to her yogurt and banana diet, the benefits of which, she recently became enlightened to during a short holiday in Bhutan last month. I seek consolation in the fact that by the end of the holiday at least one of us will look emaciated.

In the evening, the husband and I stop by at Meadows, a charming cafe near the apartment, for a cup off coffee but end up having wine instead. I am espousing the benefits of a walk in the park to him and encouraging him to start getting some exercise while on holiday. He politely asks me not to get so carried away and reminds me that I have spoken about my maiden morning walk only about a dozen times since the afternoon.

We take a short walk around the tony neighbourhood of Notting Hill, which is full of eclectic shops and boutiques. I spot a records shop that sells old LPs and am reminded of Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity. There is also Chef Jamie Olivier’s organic food cafe and pattiserie and another store that specializes in cook books from around the world. It is nice to be in a hood that is not tempting me to shop and where I can actually take a walk with the spouse without annoying him by diving in and out of shops.

We have plans to step out for dinner but I have overtaken by a sudden urge to cook. The husband winces at the suggestion but I convince him with feigned confidence that I will cook him a good meal. I am clearly in the first flush of domesticity.

I begin to stir fry the vegetables with great gusto but realize a minute or two later that I ought to have parboiled the broccoli and baby corn. I then go on to retrieve the oiled veggies and par boil some of them before tossing them back into the pan. It is all quite silly really, to not be able to manage something as simple.

I keep picking broccoli florets and bite into it to see if it is cooked and before I know it a good portion of the broccoli has been thus devoured in this process. To make up for the reduced quantity, I throw in some mushrooms from the sealed tray and start to stir them in only to realize seconds later that they still have dirt on them and needed to be washed. I then go on to reclaim the oil coated mushrooms as well and wash them before putting them back in again.

This is not doing too much for my self-esteem as a domestic goddess. I am feeling more like a domestic doggess here!


Hyde Park

When I finally serve the kids who are half faint with hunger, they lap up the stir fried vegetables and the handmade egg pasta (handmade by Tesco, not me) that I have put together by adding some pomodoro and parmesan sauce out of a bottle.  There is cold breeze coming in from the kitchen window and for all the time that I have spent in the kitchen, I am neither sweaty nor tired or irritated.

I look outside the kitchen window and admiring the blueberries growing on the tree and come to the surprising realization that I am enjoying this organic, self-sufficient way of living. It is a refreshing to be able to manage on your own and for a change, I would much rather be doing this than be rushing to Zuma or Kai or Koya for a meal night after night.

The food is also a big hit with the husband and my mother who cannot stop praising my culinary skills. “I never thought you could cook but you have proven me wrong today,” she tells me. The kids are thrilled to be eating a meal cooked by their own mother.

I too am thrilled that no one can tell that the sauce was readymade or that the stir-fry tasted had packets of Maggi masala tastemaker in it.


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