Six weeks on and another trip to the hairdresser. The wonderful Fran, my stylist, managed to cut most of the remaining dyed hair off and with just a small amount left on the front, we both agree that my next cut will reveal my natural colour in all it’s unmasked glory.
I’ve spent most of the last year slowly peeling off the layers of the person I had become over the previous 17 years. As the year progressed more and more of the old me began to surface: my sense of humour, my self-confidence and my utter belief that, you know what, I deserve to be surrounded by caring people who appreciate me for who I am, warts and all, and accept me without qualifying their acceptance. Continue reading