Until tomorrow morning. When the muscles howl and mewl and remind me that I am not intermediate, my sense of humour might just wisp away. I expect I will curse the beginner-ladies-of-Dulwich who ought to be standing alongside me in the name of solidarity. Things might be tight, but, really, other things need to be umm...tight.
I am terribly inspired by my high-maintenance teacher - mostly because she has a delightful sense of humour. She has gone from long haired brunette to short haired blonde this week. I can just imagine if I had made that leap. Within weeks, I'd be scraggly and brunette and take to wearing a hat. I'd be muttering about my feminist mother letting me down, not teaching me that it is okay to be glamourous. She read Ms magazine and liked Gloria Steinem and other hairy 70's feminists. Who I loathed when I was young. They were gross. Looks do matter.
I'm having flashbacks of rebelliousness and think I might just have to become a blonde someday soon. My mother would faint.