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Guest Blog courtesy of Kate Bailey

(Kate Bailey is an advertising copywriter who is leprous in her inability to get hired but is now working on a documentary proposal and will do event make-up.)

Earlier this year my hair started to turn red. In the natural scheme of things, soon it would start to fall out. But there’s nothing natural about it. Any blonde of the bottle persuasion will tell you that there is an unfortunate predilection for the tresses to tend toward the ginger. Not a fine hearty Celtic ginger either; a hectic brassy shade only to be created by the interaction of numerous corrosive chemicals, found in a box from the chemist or very occasionally, via the ministrations of a sub-par professional.

I thought it best to visit my local salon, promisingly named ‘Hair Heaven’. The place was seething with young girls undergoing the most painful-looking procedures in order to achieve the approved be-ringleting for their Communion, and all the staff’s hair was done to the same ‘frying pan’ colour scheme – light on the top, dark underneath.

Under close questioning from ‘Lorna’ I allowed that I had upon occasion (when skint) undertaken the colouring of my own hair. This elicited a sharp intake of breath and sucking-in of Lorna’s bottom lip. “We couldn’t do your hair if you’ve been at it; it might be damaged and break off.” This seemed a logical possibility but I put it to Lorna that such an outcome might be preferable to going on with The Great Gingeration. She was having none of it. “It’s just that if we try and fix it and something happens…” The possible repercussions for the salon seemed too awful to utter. In vain I tried to persuade her that, far from affixing blame to the salon, I would accept any outcome – even moth-eaten baldness – since if the colour couldn’t be fixed, I’d have to shave it all off in any case.

In the end it was a stand-off. Sadly I trailed out. The only L’Oreal ‘Castings’ I’d ever see would be ‘Outcastings’.

So unnaturally I turned to “Multilights” Crème Formula” from a well-known high street store that shall remain nameless. In defiance of the advice proffered on the box, I highlighted first, then applied the ‘Tonal Low-Lights’. The resulting alarming shade of lemon was relieved only by some startling hanks of electric turquoise.

Panic set in while numerous foul-mouthed children rioted outside the window. The only course seemed to be to revisit the treacherous high street store and purchase an unseemly number of new mid-blonde shades. Each was applied in sequence. The bright blue fistfuls of straw-like hair remained. Back to the high street in low-level hysteria after a brief but telling wrangle with kids, who had ventured onto my very doorstep, ostensibly looking for their cat but really hoping to make mock.

This time I bought “Light Golden Brown” from the respected L’Oreal stable (having given up on the favourably-priced but satanic high street brand). Applied in a fervour of desperation it yielding a straggling seaweed-y mass, as dark as the heart of a Spanish whoremaster. With pale green highlights, of course.

At that point I gave up and allowed Nature to take its course. This involved lots of irritating Facebook commentary along the lines of “has your hair gone green or is it just the light?”

All I have left now is this sage advisory for anyone thinking of blithely correcting the ravages of peroxide – dying by your own hand will see you denied Hair Heaven.

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(Looks like my sandwich situation has been sorted. Witto.)

Guest Blog courtesy of Amie Steffen

(Amie Steffen has been writing mostly serious things for newspapers since 2006.)

I don’t know why so many people have their underpants in a twist over this whole “who makes the sandwiches” business. So many crying people, mad people, women getting huffy. In short, craziness. There is a simple solution:

Women, let’s just make the sandwiches!

I have just about every recipe for every sandwich ever invented, courtesy of Meek Housewives Monthly (MHM) and of course from my own trial-and-error archives — oh the fun I have in the kitchen! If there’s a man around, he’s gonna get himself a delicious sandwich, I can tell you that!

Oh, I’ve heard a lot of marriage advice over the years, but in the 27 years I’ve been married to my Octavius I can tell you there is only one thing you need to know:

Behind every great man is a woman… making sandwiches.

Laugh all you want. I’ve seen your type. “Oh, why does the WOMAN have to make the sandwiches? Why can’t he make his own damn sandwich?” I will tell you, that kind of talk will not ever get you that emerald necklace you’ve been eyeing down at Kay’s.

But more to the point, it won’t get you the man. And, if you keep refusing to make delicious sandwiches every time he so much as glances toward the kitchen, you won’t keep your man, either.

Why sandwiches, you may ask? You might as well inquire as to why the sun is hot, or why women get pregnant: It’s the only damn thing that matters.

But, if I must spell it out for you, and since I do not have anyone requiring sandwiches at the moment, here goes:

1) Sandwiches are food, and all men love food.
2) When made properly, sandwiches are delicious.
3) Men hate preparing food. They especially hate preparing and then assembling food.
4) Women love preparing food for men, and they are in the kitchen a lot.
5) Men love it when women do tasks for them, unless they are manly tasks where a man would feel silly if a woman did it for him.
6) Women love pleasing their man.

Ergo, vis a vis, heretofore — sandwiches!

I am not a love doctor, a marriage counselor, or Dr. Phil. And of course,I did not go to college. But I have made approximately 2.5 sandwiches per day for each of the men in my life, and all of those men are still in my life, including my adoring Octavius.

Coincidence? I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to roll those dice.

I’ll just keep making sandwiches for men. Women doing so for going on 250 years now can’t be wrong.

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