Chipmunking

A week and a day ago I found out I have to move house – I knew my lease was up on July 9, but I have lived there for six years, so I (foolishly) assumed a new lease would be something the landlords would be as keen on as I was. Only they're not – they want to sell. Which really rather sucks.

It's not that I can't find a place (although if I DO have to leave by next Wednesday, I'm in rather a fix because) it's more that I have SO MUCH STUFF. I am a serious hoarder. I'd make an excellent chipmunk – burrowed away somewhere or other around the world is probably everything I've ever owned. I live in a small flat in western terms, but whole families – mum, dad, two kids, grandma – often live in spaces of the same size. My spare room is a storeroom. I just don't quite know where to start with the whole "packing" thing. (I frequently wake up with the theme song from Love Story in my head. Or “It's only just begun...” sung to the Carpenters' choon of nearly the same name.)

I packed up a plastic tub thing of winter clothes this morning, and another of dresses – didn't realise I had quite so many, must wear them more often, it's the year of the dress after all – and unpacked one of ...well, I'm not entirely sure why, but socks. I think my mum had put them there last summer, and I hadn't got round to emptying it. Hoarding, you see. And I filled an amah bag – one of those ingenious, canvas bags that seem unique to Hong Kong and southern China, that are apparently indestructible – of stuff I haven't worn for two years (or so), or that my sister left after living here for a year. In 2004 – for my former helper to do with what she will. She filled 5 amah bags on Saturday, helping me out – pots, pans, dishes, rice cooker, magic chicken roaster, juicer, stick blender, all my books.

And it STILL looks like I haven't begun to scratch the surface.

As I showered this morning, I realised I had quite a few pretty-much-empty tubes of face wash and bottles of shampoo that needed taking to the recyling bin. Then stepped out and faced the reality of my product situation.

Now, I'm a pretty low-maintenance kinda gal. Jeans, tank and flip-flops are pretty much my choice du jour – easy, breezy, like the Covergirl commercials say. Makeup, when I bother, is a bit of blush and some sort of eyeliner. Hair products are my indulgence – when you have hair that tends to the frizzy side of things, you have to invest in quality and variety. (My current favourites: Bumble & Bumble Curl Conscious Crème – the shampoo is useless – Umberto Giannini Curl Friends Scrunching Jelly and something by Kiehl's... silk groom, or something, not particularly for curly girls, but nourishing and seems to do something.) But my bathroom shelves are packed with products of all sorts: powders, sunscreen, foundation, eye cream, red-minimiser, body lotion, moisturiser, makeup remover, lip liner, toner, eye makeup remover... And most of them are full.

To be fair, as part of my job, I review a beauty product a week. But. It's ludicrous how much space it all takes up. So as I stood there dripping, I decided I had better start finishing off half-empty bottles and containers of product and taking them all down to recycle.
Easier said than done.

But let's see how the week progresses – maybe I'll suddenly decide I need to wear foundation and powder. Or maybe I'll find a friend who's on her way to buy some. Or maybe the theatre group I work with might want it. Someone might. It seems a shame to throw it all away. And a waste – almost negating any recycling it might facilitate.

I think the original point of the post was this – the first remnants of product I managed to use up today was John Frieda's Curl Perfecting Spray. I don't think I've used this in maybe three years. But today was a non-wetting, shove-hair-into-ponytail kinda day, so I said “What the hey", and sprayed with abandon (or rather, pumped with abandon – never fear, it was a totally Earth-friendly non-aerosol pump). This is definitely going on my never-bother-again list: I have dry, mildly frizzy, crunchy girls. It's the curly girl's nightmare. I think I'd rather have a ball of frizz atop my head. (I THINK, I say – it's a little like, I hate to say it, but Sophie's Choice. It's like asking if you'd rather sit through a lecture on The Latest Trends in Accounting or your formerly-hip, open-minded, liberated friend's now-smug-married's lecture on why it's important to “get out there": neither life-threatening or even really worthy of a place on the grand scale of life, but both rather unpleasant.)

So yes. The lesson here, fellow curlyheads, is don't bother with “curl-enhancing” sprays. Either shove your head under the shower and whack in some conditioner and a boatload of products, or tie it up – I currently favour a ribbon in lieu of a hairband and a big bushy ‘tail. I'm all for loving my semi-fro, but I realise its limitations. Some days, only a hair tie will do.

And don't hoard. There willl be tears.