Falling (ungracefully) into place

Despite the fact that I do have a knack for kicking myself with my own feet as I walk (it sounds physiologically impossible I have the bruises to prove it), this post is not about my clumsiness or distinct lack of grace. Though the countless paving stones I have tripped over would beg to differ.

Nor is this post even about the perils of taking off in storm Ciara. Although the plane did feel very much as if it was about to fall out of the sky, along with the contents of my stomach that were rapidly plummeting earthwards.

This post does not even contain a reference to my infamous tango classes. Diego's feet are well and truly intact as I haven't managed to go back since my first endeavour. I do promise, even for the sake of a good story (and at the cost of my perilously low self esteem) I shall return once more to burn the floor with Diego and his exotic cohort.

None of the above tales or musings have made the cut I am afraid. But I do hope that they have tantalised you if nothing else, and they have set the tone and the theme of falling, or falling into place, that prevails in both a literal and figurative sense throughout this post.

Firstly we start with the literal. I find it makes for steadier ground than launching into the figurative, so here goes. The part of my life that is most literally fall into (surprisingly graceful) place is my hair. I have had a somewhat tumultuous relationship with my hair throughout my life. Growing up I had a block fringe that could now be considered child abuse (sorry mum!). My wavy locks were determined to spread out in any other direction than vertical, making for something akin to a gravity defying dance across my forehead. Along with the chubby cheeks and thick pigtails, I really never stood a chance.

Then as I grew older and headed towards my teenage years, I discovered that no one understood me or all my deeply complex emotions. So I latched onto emo culture along with my sister Alice. In fact it was such a defining part of our lives that we are going to see My Chemical Romance in their reunion tour this summer. And we liked them before they were cool. Obviously. So the emo culture brought with it a time of combing every possible fibre of my hair across my face so that people wouldn't have to look into the dark depths of my soul. And because Haley Williams was doing it and she was pretty damn cool. We would go to Camden and find sprays to temporarily dye our hair purple, or gels and waxes that promised to hold the side fringe (which really consisted of an entire head of hair restricted to one corner of the head) in place.

Then, eventually, and with some regret, I outgrew that time of my life and reverted to having 'just hair'. Without character, without charm, but luckily also without grease, my hair was not living but merely surviving for the latter part of my teenagehood. I tolerated it, and it treated me with a respectful aloofness which in many ways I came to admire. But I never liked it. Every 6 months or so I would 'try something new' because I had grown so dissatisfied with the old that it couldn't possibly be worse. But it was. Every single time. Most visits to the hairdresser were more stressful for me than trips to the dentist. At least I could rely on my teeth not to bring me to tears. I would let it grow. I would cut it all off. I would get it wavy. I would get it done straight. I would get a block fringe. A side fringe. No fringe. A mullet. Okay I never got a mullet. But I did get a vast array of dreadfully safe and boring haircuts in an attempt to find 'the one'. But much like my love life, my perfect hair has eluded me.

However, after having cut my hair off in May in an attempt to reinvent myself (or something equally as pretentious) I have discovered a safe haven and a newfound admiration for the bob. Much like a friendly neighbourhood builder, my bob is reliable, dependable, and he gets the job done. A recent trip to a new hairdressers confirmed this for me, as rather than having a dreadful time fretting and being fearful of the outcome, I just sat back and let Fabio work his magic. Oh yes. Fabio. Fabio was his name. I have never had my hair manhandled in such a forceful and yet gentle way. It was being tossed back and forth all over the place like a rag doll. It was up, it was down, it was messed around. He even asked passionately how I liked it blown (steady now). Needless to say Fabio can cut my hair anytime.

But in a more figurative, and far less sexually frustrated way, my life is also sort of falling into place. At least a little more than before. Most of you know that I was applying for a Masters at Drama School, with a great deal of hope but perhaps slightly less belief. I auditioned for LAMDA. Got rejected from LAMDA. Auditioned for RADA. Got rejected from RADA. The new year came and I felt very much like the outcome of my remaining auditions was a foregone conclusion. Which is perhaps why I turned up at my ArtsEd audition so relaxed. An absolute conviction to your own rejection is a sure fire way to calm the nerves. And lo and behold I got a callback that very same day. I had a great deal of respect for ArtsEd from the get go. It was the director of the course who conducted the auditions, taking a great deal of time and care to talk to us, encourage us, and convince us to walk away if we could. Don't be alarmed - that's what most drama school teachers do. Please, they beg, please if you can do ANYTHING else. If ANYTHING else will make you happy or content. Do that. Because the drama life is a bitch. But the self-destructive streak in me seeks out performance like a moth to a limelit flame. So I stayed. I endured. And by some miracle I got an offer. So I am now due to start my 1 year acting MA at ArtsEd in September. I couldn't be more excited.

When I received the offer e-mail I was just about to head off to America. I cried. I think it was shock. I was so utterly convinced it would be a rejection e-mail waiting in my inbox. I had to re-read it several times, and then forward it to my family for them to read and re-read, just to make sure I hadn't dreamt the whole thing up. Then I flew to America, where I let the news settle in, before sending my warmest acceptance upon my return. Yes there are practical factors to sort (not least 'where will I live'/'how will I eat') but these are minor details on the pathway to my future. What I'm trying to say is...donations are welcome.

So there you have it. Just as my hair fell sweepingly out of Fabio's manly hands, so my life has somehow somersaulted its way to the ground and landed - if shakily - on two feet. I now have no excuse not to run at full pelt in the direction of my dreams. If that didn't sound so corny that I threw up a little just typing it. Perhaps this is what is in store for you all. I may become a concrete wall of positivity; dull and impassable. Although I hope you'll all still tolerate me and bring some colourful graffiti to my damp, grey bricks. (NB please read this as figuratively as possible, as I do not personally want to be vandalised).

As ever, thank you for reading. Sorry for rambling. And sorry for all the pun-filled headlines. Bet you won't fall for that one again. (Oh dear...it's beginning...).

Lots of love to you all x