Every so often you come across someone and think , ‘Where the hell have you been all my life?’ Maybe that person turns out to be your soul mate or becomes a very dear friend. In my case, it’s Andy, hairdressing magician of The Village in Chapparal, Costa Del Silencio.

As I was the poster child for mousy hair at school, it’s not surprising that two kids and thirty years have done nothing at all to improve its texture or manageability. I’ve always known that I have challenging hair but I’ve never been impressed with those hairdressers that collapse in hysterics when I present a picture of Halle Berry and say, ‘I want to look like THAT!’

Not Andy. Okay, so Halle Berry may be a bit of a stretch but over the last few months he has rescued my hair from the absolute depths of bad haircut hell and resurrected it to the point where I have finally been brave enough to go for something a bit more exciting. After much uhmming and ahhing, I’ve gone for a perm. No, not a Kevin Keegan type 70’s nightmare. A body perm. According to Andy, it makes me look glam. Personally I suspect that the only thing that is likely to do that is dark lights and a bottle of vodka but a bit of harmless flattery never hurt a soul.

That was last Thursday and I left the salon feeling great. My flat and boring hair had bounce and shine and believe it or not, I did feel glam.

At least for a little while.

By the time I’d finished messing about with my exciting and dare I say …sexy …new style I looked more barmy than bombshell.

I struggled along for a few days convinced that my perm had fallen out. As if I’d dropped it on the way to the shops or something. I called Andy and wailed down the phone at him. Instead of telling me to get a grip and a bit more practice with my velcro rollers, he set me up with an appointment for a wash and blow dry and told me to come prepared.

When I turned up, he washed my hair, sat me in front of the mirror and told me to get on with it. I had to do my hair the way I was doing it at home. He stood back and watched me torture and twist my hair onto the rollers with thinly disguised horror before showing me what I should be doing and making me do that instead. At one point he was waffling on about what I could do with a pair of tongs before visualising the damage I’d be likely to inflict on myself or innocent bystanders and retracting that suggestion.

In the end, I left the salon with my beautiful bouncy barnet back and a new spring in my step. Andy had made me, make me, look good and feel great. Now that’s what I call a hairdresser!

There are times when in the process of getting the kids out of bed or into bed, into their clothes or out of clothes and into jammies, to play nice, to be quiet or to just leave me alone for FIVE DAMN MINUTES! (ahem,… ehm.. sorry…where was I…)… that I just feel so shrill.

Surely I can’t be nagging at them ALL the time, can I? It feels that way sometimes. I used to wonder if I was missing some vital part of DNA that meant instead of a Hollywood nurturing nest, my home was doomed to be a chaotic pit until the kids grew up and moved away. That was until I received the following clip which I am setting to replay until the kids are about 27 or so:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o6P2w5GkXmU&hl=en&fs=1]

The clip is of the comedienne, Anita Renfroe, who condensed her own (and every mother’s)daily experience into 3 short minutes and set it to the William Tell Overture.

The sales in Tenerife (and presumably everywhere else) start off slow and then avalanche to huge discounts towards the close of the sales season in March. It’s one thing knowing that you should hold on to whatever dosh you’ve held back from Christmas for another few weeks and quite another to be cringing in embarrassment at the sight of your kid’s skinny ankles poking out the end of every pair of trousers he possesses.

So off we headed to Santa Cruz where my other half decided that Decathalon was the place to go. Que tonterias! What a nightmare. Of course, the sales were barely underway which we expected but the store layout ond the price marking was a joke. While there is a ‘kid’ section it seems very much given over to little girls while the most obvious boys’ bit was from 6 months to 4 years only. Where do all the 5 year old kids get their chandals then?

After much scraping and scrabbling through confusing and poorly marked racks I did find some trousers for the little guy plus stocked up on the Domyo t-shirts for him which are always a good buy and last forever but it wasn’t an enjoyable experience and I won’t be heading back there any time soon.

At least not until we are in the 75 – 80% discount period of the sales.

As for buying goodies for myself in the sales, who needs to go to Santa Cruz? I’ll be heading to Mango in San Eugenio for my loot.

The sales in Tenerife officially started on January 7th. Given that my kids are currently growing out of their clothes every five minutes, this is my chance to stock the cupboard for the next few months. I swear, the little guy goes to bed at night and wakes up with legs an inch and a half longer every morning. He’s got welly-welts across the calves from last month’s long trousers.

Even so, I expect a lot of moaning and groaning from the spousal department when he sees how much I am going to have to spend on kid’s clothes so I am memorising the following:

A él que tiene su bolsillo
A obscuras, no le da luz
Una acha de seis pavilos

So said Gasper Závala y Zamora in his three act comedy El Buen y el Mal Amigo.

I have mentioned Damon Park in Costa Del Silencioa few times here and there. With children in tow, it has always provided a pleasant place to sit out on a sunny afternoon. The kids get to grips with the mini-golf while the adults enjoy a little pester-free refreshment comfortable in the knowledge that the bairns are happily amused, in sight at all times and there are no cars in the vicinity.

Sadly, those lazy Damon Park afternoons are no more. After eight years the council has denied the renewal of the lease to the current Tennis Clubhouse proprietor and nobody seems to know what the current plans are for the area.

There has allegedly been an alternative offer to the council from a young lad with deep pockets and a burning desire to invest in the shabby park. As yet, this offer has not been acknowledged so it would seem the council have their own plans.

Let’s hope that they include keeping a green and open public space and that there is money available to rehabilitate what was once a pretty town park with miniature train and public swimming pool.

As it is, the only thing that kept Damon Park from total neglect was the little tennis club cafe which served both patrons of the tennis courts and petanque ‘pitches’ and the general public. Now with that closed down and the once lively Calabaza restaurtant a distant memory there is nothing to stop the whole park side of the location being concreted over and turned into a giant and ugly carpark.

Whew. Well thank God that’s all over … almost. Just got the little guy’s birthday to get through and then its back to business as usual. He’ll get candles and cake and perhaps even a pressie or two tomorrow but we’ll have a party for him and his friends in a couple of weeks once the school is back in.

Of course for all the little kids around here their big celebration is coming up on the 6th with the Three Kings. They’ll be leaving a drink for each of the Three Kings and food for camels instead of reindeer on the 5th and wake to find the presents that Balthazar, Melchior and Gaspar left for them. No doubt they’ll then run straight round to my gaffe to show my kids what they got which will bring on immediate and acute amnesia regarding all the presents that they opened just 12 days ago.

It’s one thing to resign yourself to growing old gracefully if you looked like Audrey Hepburn to begin with but the only famous person I have ever been likened too is Boy George. (Thankfully that was in his Karma Chameleon years). Unfortunately now that my dumpy self and Scottish complexion are in my forties, I find myself magnetically attracted to the bottles of snake oil that stuff the pharmacy shelves. I fondle the packaging and slyly read the box ready to tell the assistant, should she ask, that I’m looking for a present for my Mum.

Stopping by the Parafarmacia Vera at the bottom of Las Galletas today to pick up some kids tutti-fruti toothpaste I couldn’t help myself drifting towards the wonder creams. From a distance a rack of silver and blue boxes caught my eye and I squinted myopically to see the legend – Snail Dribble. What?

I couldn’t resist turning the box over and instead of Spanish, I found a French translation, Bave d’Escargot (Snail Slobber) and I thanked God that no matter how crinkly I got I was never, ever going to be deperate enough to lather myself in snail slime – I mean, horrific as it sounds snail dribble isn’t accurate is it? I’m sure that silvery trail comes out of quite a different part of the snail’s anatomy…

The assistant who no doubt thought she was on to a good thing shot over to let me know what a fabulous difference this miracle ointment would make to me. Giving her a look which I hope conveyed how silly was her initial notion that my skin was in any way in need of snail dribble, I assured her that I was in fact only looking for possible Christmas presents.

For my mother!