Hair Today – Gone Tomorrow



I am not spontaneous, not by any means. But impulsive … different story.

Herein lies the difference:

Spontaneous: I feel like cutting my hair, so I’ll phone the hairdresser and make an appointment for the first availability.

Impulsive: I feel like cutting my hair, so I’ll ask Angel to cut it now … with her Swiss Army Knife.

I took out my hair extensions last Saturday afternoon, and once the fake tresses had been removed I decided that my natural hair [which was just just below my bra strap - call it mid-back] needed to be shorter too. I was not prepared to wait to get an appointment with a hairdresser and so I summonsed my mini-me to chop off the length.

We hunted high and low for her school stationery bag in order to retrieve a pair of scissors, however it was nowhere to be found. So whilst I continued digging in kitchen drawers Madam brought out her Scouting tool and showed me the mini pair of scissors.

I didn’t so much as blink an eyelid.

“Let’s go Angel. Cut it off. “

And so she did. With the blonde wet wavy locks falling in soft piles on the cold white bathroom tiles.

My head feels so much lighter with my hair now resting on my shoulders.

But it isn’t enough. Or rather it’s still too much. I have a burning need for greater change and so I have made an appointment with a hairdresser for tomorrow afternoon [hey - spontaneous after all!]

These are the ideas I have in mind … depending on tomorrow’s mood and how brave I am feeling once under cape.


short hair  Short Hair

Unfortunately I have no blonde in my hair, as I was sporting an ombre look and therefore all the lovely light coloured sections of the hair was removed, and only the bland brown remains. So I will be highlighting my hair [as in literally doing it myself - we all know how I feel about hairdressers and colour]; either tonight prior to the cut – or tomorrow afternoon after the cut.

Decisions decision.

Song For Harmony




Party girls don’t get hurt
Can’t feel anything, when will I learn
I push it down, push it down

I’m the one “for a good time call”
Phone’s blowin’ up, ringin’ my doorbell
I feel the love, feel the love

1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, drink
1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, drink
1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, drink

Throw ‘em back ’til I lose count

I’m gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier
I’m gonna live like tomorrow doesn’t exist
Like it doesn’t exist
I’m gonna fly like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry
I’m gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier

But I’m holding on for dear life, won’t look down, won’t open my eyes
Keep my glass full until morning light, ’cause I’m just holding on for tonight
Help me, I’m holding on for dear life, won’t look down, won’t open my eyes
Keep my glass full until morning light, ’cause I’m just holding on for tonight
On for tonight

Sun is up, I’m a mess
Gotta get out now, gotta run from this
Here comes the shame, here comes the shame

1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, drink
1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, drink
1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, drink

Throw ‘em back ’til I lose count

I’m gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier
I’m gonna live like tomorrow doesn’t exist
Like it doesn’t exist
I’m gonna fly like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry
I’m gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier

But I’m holding on for dear life, won’t look down, won’t open my eyes
Keep my glass full until morning light, ’cause I’m just holding on for tonight
Help me, I’m holding on for dear life, won’t look down, won’t open my eyes
Keep my glass full until morning light, ’cause I’m just holding on for tonight
On for tonight

On for tonight
‘Cause I’m just holding on for tonight
Oh I’m just holding on for tonight
On for tonight
On for tonight
‘Cause I’m just holding on for tonight
‘Cause I’m just holding on for tonight
Oh I’m just holding on for tonight
On for tonight
On for tonight

~ ♥ ~

[that being said, I haven't had a drink in 23 days]

Famous Last Words


The weekend before last I was (wo)man down with food poisoning. My dear friend Mix [she is a chef at a well-known food market] brought food home from work that her staff had incorrectly marked. And instead of the chicken pie having been cooked on the Sunday, as was marked on the packaging; it had actually been made on the Friday. Noting this, we ate it on the Monday.

My stomach is sensitive at the best of times, and with my IBO and other digestive problems; eating a three day old pie did not do me any favours. Needless to say I spent more time in the cold bathroom that night than I did in my warm bed. I was not impressed, and neither was Star and Mix’s four kids who also ate from the humble pie.

This weekend I was poisoned again. No dodgy pie this time, and neither can I pin the blame on illiterate staff of friends. This time I have to take full responsibility for waking up in a pool of my own vomit. Ok, who am I kissing, of course I’m going to pass the buck.

Damn you Strawberry Lips! And damn you Star’s girlfriends family for not warning me that its main ingredient is Tequila! You need only do a “Tequila” search of my posts to know why there are several very good reasons why I refrain from indulging in such devil’s poison. Read them at your own peril.

I was invited to Star’s girlfriends 18th Birthday celebration on Saturday night [the family have it in their head that I am some party animal!] and so Star, one of Mix’s sons and I headed across the road for fine dining and good wine.

Perhaps I arrived a bit early, or maybe din-dins took too long to be prepared; but I was already a bottle of Merlot down before the meal was served. And bearing in mind that I had hardly eaten the preceding week due to the food poisoning I experienced on the Monday; I was drinking on a very empty stomach.

After dinner a bottle of Olmega and Strawberry Lips came out. And totally forgetting that the pink drink actually contained Tequila; I opted for said bottle. Actually, make that plural, because Star’s GF’s mother’s sister and I polished off a bottle solo, and then proceeded to play down downs on the second.

At least that’s what I was told. I don’t recall much after the second shooter. I certainly don’t remember giving away my brand new pair of red fur gloves to my new best friend, stating that I had another shipment coming in the following week [WTF!] and thank god I have no memory of Mix’s son carrying me home.

I awoke on the Sunday morning to a putrid smell in my room, and when I could finally open my eyes I found myself lying in a dark pink mess of sick. Worse was to come.

For some reason I was naked. I have yet to ascertain whether Mix’s son undressed me on getting me home [please lord not], or did I derobe sometime in the night?

That was the least of my worries, when I was finally able to lift my head I looked around my room in absolute horror. It looked like a person had exploded in my bedroom, and my cupboard doors were covered with body parts and blood. As were the bedclothes [two sheets and a blanket] on the floor [how the eff did they get there?].

I was lying nude [as I've said] on my electric blanket [how I didn't electrocute myself, god only knows] and even that was covered in chunks of human anatomy. Actually it was only Merlot, Pink Liqueur and potatoes; but truste me – that combination looks like something out of a horror movie.

My pillowcases and pillows were similarly stained and worst of all; my precious goose-down duvet was wet, stained and chunky. *sob*

Did I mention that I had to be at my brother’s place for my nephew’s birthday party at 10h00 and I still had to fetch Angel from a friend and take the girls to the Scout hall as they were heading to Harties for the day?

With the worst hangover of my life [and first one in many years] I fell out of bed and began the crime scene clean up. I wore a scarf over my face as the smell was so overpowering that had I anything left in my stomach, the contents would’ve joined those around my room.

I had to hand wash all my bedding and then lay it out on the grass to dry [my duvet was only fit to return to my bed yesterday - that's four nights without warmth!] and one of my pillows is still wet because the damn feathers won’t dry!

I spent several hours cleaning my room – with sticks of incense in every corner to mask the awful sour smell. And once the bed had been stripped and all bedding was outside drying; I could finally get under a shower and wash my pink potato encrusted hair.

I’m never drinking again.

Gun and Girls in The Township

The saga with Suits and Big Bill was not my first encounter with guns – not by a long shot. [Hehehe, couldn't resist.]

Rewind to the mid-1980′s.

The scene: Apartheid was in full swing, the country was in State of Emergency, political unrest was rife, and curfews were imposed in the townships; with the South African Armed forces having a heavy presence in these locations, particularly Soweto and Alexandra, where the unrest was most volatile.

I was a young and innocent [believe it or not] teenager; without a cooking clue about the boiling pot of politics in South Africa, par for what we were taught in school; which was naturally tainted. My only interest at that age was smoking [Benson & Hedges Special Mild], drinking [Black Label] and partying with my friends. Oh and snogging with the boyfriend, a good smooch went amiss.

As I’ve previously written about this Bad Boy, he literally came from the wrong side of the tracks, and he wasn’t exactly the best influence on me. We would tell my folks we were going to the movies, but instead we’d be hitting much older teenagers parties, getting very drunk.

One weekend, Bad Boy decided that we should have a double date with his best friend and his girlfriend, with the plan being that we go to the drive-in. Which we duly did. We stayed for the first feature, however the second movie was a Terence Hill and Bud Spencer flick that none of us were keen on watching; and so we left Top Star in search of booze and a bong.

Not being a driver myself at the time, I didn’t know where we were going; and all roads looked unfamiliar – as they always did back then.

Soon the more affluent houses made way for low cost housing, which in turn led to shanties and finally we were in an area surrounded by very rundown apartment-style building, which I later discovered were the men’s hostels in Alexandra.

As ignorant and naive as I was at 16, I knew we were in a township; and I also knew that for four young white teenagers, this was a very dangerous place to be; especially late at night,  during the State of Emergency and in the middle of political unrest. We really couldn’t have been in a worse place at a worse time.

The boys were full of jokes in the beginning; giving us a ‘tour’ of how the ‘other half’ lived. All was fun and games until the driver realised he was completely lost and didn’t know how to get us out of the township, as all the windy roads merely led to more rundown buildings and shacks with sans a person or car in sight.

The smell of paraffin and smoke was overpowering; and the lack of voices, dogs barking or any other seemingly normal neighbourhood sounds; ominous.

The sound of tires rattling on the uneven sand road alerted us to the presence of other road users; and the boys were thrilled that someone was nearby in order to give us directions to get home.

The bakkie sped past us on the wrong side of the road, and screeched to a halt several feet in front of us. With no street lamps we couldn’t see anything; and it was only when our car was surrounded by six youths with AK47′s pointed at every window, that we realised we were in danger.

I was sitting at the back left passenger side, with the girlfriend of the driver to my right.  We grabbed each others hands and held tight in absolute fear.  The guys in front had lost every ounce of cockiness and even they were frightened.

Time stood still and nobody moved.  The men outside kept their stance; one at the back, one in front, and two at each side. We sat still in car, not talking, not moving. Each party awaiting a move from the other side.

The bakkie in front of us make a u-turn and slowly inched towards our car, the lights illuminating the interior of our car; giving our armed guards a full view of the occupants; and a huge shadow of the man in front of our windscreen, looking larger than life.

One of the men shouted instructions to his comrades in vernacular; and immediately my window was hit by the end of the barrel of the assault rifle.

“Get out girly.”

I peed.

“Hey! I said get out!” the barrel bashed against the window again, and this was accompanied by the rattling of the car door handle.

Soon similar actions were taking place on the other side of the car, with our windows being hit with the guns. Hard enough to echo in the silence of the car, but not enough to break the glass.

By this stage my bladder was my empty, but not a fuck was I going to move. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I was frozen to the spot. If they wanted me, they were going to have to break the door open and take me. And they’ve probably have to take the car seat too, as the seat, my urine and I had all become one.

This was obviously the plan, as after more deliberations in their dialect, my captor turned the gun around to use the butt to start bashing against my window.  It didn’t break on the first try, and so he stood back to get a better brace to hit the window.

Before I could finish the prayers in my head; bright lights came up behind us, along with the rat-a-tat-tat sound of gunfire blasting in the air.

“Oh Jesus, here comes the rest of the gang. Just make it painless.” I prayed, to the only God I knew at the time.

To be continued …


Bills and Guns and More Bills and More Guns

Big Bill to the rescue!

Bill was my first serious boyfriend after my divorce from Sperm Donor. I met him through his sister, who was my best friend at the time, and we worked together at the television casting agency that I would later go on to own.

Bill owned a security company; offering guarding and armed response services to his clients on the East Rand. What I didn’t know until near the end of our two and half year relationship, was that he was also a mercenary; a.k.a. a hired killer.  Granted he wouldn’t kill at whim, and would only do so when paid a packet of dollars and on behalf of warring factions in war torn African countries [I know far too much for my own good]; but still *shudder*.

Anyway, this post is not about my relationship with Big Bill – that’s several posts of their own.

Once Suits had finally admitted where my vehicle was, I had no option but to contact Big Bill and request his assistance in retrieving it. There was no way I was I going to head into a dodgy side road off Claim Street to negotiate the return of my vehicle, from some very scary and dangerous men. Instead I was going to enlist the services of a not so scary but equally if not more dangerous man of my own.

I set up a meeting between Big Bill, Suits and myself; so that Suits could give Big Bill the exact location of the vehicle; as well as brief Big Bill on the Nigerian gang that he would be encountering, including a description of their arsenal and which other buildings in the vicinity they had under their control.

Thereafter he and a reconnaissance team consisting of his senior security supervisors headed into town to gather more intel; confirm that the information Suits had provided was accurate; and get a visual on my vehicle and to ensure it was still in the same condition in which it was “sold”.

A few days later I was tasked with having to call Suits’ drug dealer, and offer to buy back the vehicle for his outstanding debt.  Naturally the amount had escalated due to interest [hahaha, seriously, that's what the dealer told me!] and from owing approximately R4,000 for how ever many grams of coke that could buy in the early 2000′s; the outstanding balance was now in excess of R10,000. Needless to say, I did not have this kind of money to fork over, but Bill told me not to worry.

Big Bill’s crew set out to the location a few hours before the allotted meeting time, so that they could get into their respective positions and await the meeting to commence, which was due to be between myself and the dealer; well as far as the Nigerians were concerned.

Needless to say, there wasn’t a chance on gods good green earth that I was going to meet face to face with the them.  I was to stay put in Big Bill’s vehicle whilst he “negotiated” the price of the return of my car, and once someone drove it out and I had positively identity it – from a safe distance; it would be driven away by one of Bills boys whilst Big Bill finalised the deal.

Due to the distance I was stationed from the handover, I was unable to hear what transpired between Big Bill and the dealer; however I was privy to the stand-off and in this case, actions speak louder than words.  The dealer was obviously not impressed with the offer made to him, and pulled a gun out on Bill.  Not to be outdone, Bill’s boys came out of the hiding places, and the dealer had several guns pointed towards him.

The leather car seat was wet by this stage; and not from sweating in a locked car … I literally peed my pants when I saw more men coming out of parking garage and they definitely weren’t on Bill’s pay roll. Never before have I seen such an arsenal of weapons pointed in every which direction.

Negotiations continued in this manner for what seemed an eternity, and finally I saw my little City Golf being driven out of the same parking garage the armed men emanated from.  Big Bill handed over a few bills and with weapons still trained on him, the dealers and everyone else in the damned street, he took a slow stroll to his vehicle.

“I saved you R6,000. I got the car back for R4,000.”

“Thanks Bill.”

“Kokayi will drive your car back to base.”

“Ok Bill.”

“I’m going to drop you at home, and then I have to return to conclude business.”

“Ok Bill.”

“Stay the fuck away from Suits.”

“Yes Bill.”

“I’m serious. I’d kill him myself if I didn’t think he’s doing a good job of it on his own.”

I never saw Suits again after the meeting. And if ever his name was mentioned by mutual friends, I would just raise my hand with a stop motion. With Mix and hubby being the only real mutual friends; once we lost touch, I didn’t hear anything about Suits at all.

So imagine my shock at seeing him again this weekend, as if no time had passed.

And strangely enough, Big Bill contacted me again last week too. He is begging to landscape my garden. That’s quite a career change. I just hope he’s not wanting to do it to find a place to bury bodies. You never know.

Sperm, Drugs and Killers

Some people are easier to stay mad at than others.

Take the Sperm Donor for instance. I don’t think I will ever remotely like him, let alone cease despising him; despite being divorced from him for 18 years – which is a lifetime compared to how long we were even together for.

I never look at old photos of us, in fact the only pictures remaining are our wedding shots and I gave Star the album years ago to do with it as he sees fit. Other than those ancient pics, there are no reminders of me ever having been with him at all.

And no, Star does not remind me of him at all. Thank all the gods, goddesses and other heavenly beings that my darling son is nothing like his father. The only similarity is their height and since I’m a shorty myself, I will take the credit for that.

People unlucky enough to know the SD have mentioned that Star looks like his father, but the only time that I see the resemblance is when Star is in a very bad mood and about to throw one of his once in a decade tantrums. Star is a very chilled and laid back guy, unlike his highly-strung bad tempered violent father stranger.

Star is very much his own person, and doesn’t even take after me much either; which is also a good thing because who wants a moody, highly emotional, slightly mentally off-balance son?

Moving on.

I received some good news regarding the SD via Mix over the weekend, to say that he has left the country. He, wifey and their two kids have moved to whence she comes, and so I don’t ever have to worry about bumping into him. And since I have no plans of ever visiting Namibia, it’s all good.

All that said and done, that was not the point of my post, other than to highlight the fact that SD is the one person out my life that remains persona non grata.  I will never forget what he did to Star and I, and I chose not to think about it; but I also find it impossible to forgive him. And that remains my burden to bear.

This brings me back to Suits.  Whilst he never physically hurt me [he is actually one of the most tender people I know]; he did more than steal from me [a video machine is one thing, but a vehicle puts the theft into a whole different bracket!]; he utterly shuttered my trust and faith; especially as when I took him not even his own family would have him.

His friends had turned their backs on him; band members and managers wouldn’t have him within 100 yards of their homes and I was the only person willing to help him out. I gave him a roof over his head; hell he even had his own fully furnished room; he was fed three times a day and he had free use of a car. I never asked for anything in return other than the expectation of not to be screwed over!

So having to go through the trauma of not knowing where he was for two weeks, envisioning him dead in a ditch – and yes, I was more worried about him than my car, initially anyway – I was very relieved when he finally turned up alive. However it took several intense interrogations to find out what actually happened to my car.

The first story was that he had been hi-jacked on his way home from the gig. This didn’t explain his two week absence, but since he had all his limbs I was no longer worried about him, so I asked if Suits had been to the police station – he said he had, and so off I went to the Hillbrow Police Station to get the case number in order to notify the insurance company. Only to find that no case had been opened, because he hadn’t in fact been hijacked.

After much pleading and begging for the truth, he finally confessed that he had been on a drug binge, and because he didn’t have the money to pay the dealer back for all the stock he took; he offered them my car so as to prevent them from taking a limb or two.

I didn’t doubt this story, as unfortunately I have had enough experience [not my own] of what these guys are capable of. My brother’s childhood best friend was thrown out of The Sands Hotel in Hillbrow for not paying up. Needless to say he did not survive the fall. [The story eventually found its way onto Carte Blanche].

So how does a single petite twenty-something-year-old white girl retrieve her CitiGolf from big black blood-thirsty Nigerians?

Well, she calls for Black-Up of course.

Would you be surprised to learn that Harmony has the digits of a bona fide mercenary on speed dial?

Would you be even more shocked to know that he was an ex-boyfriend?