I've managed to clear the first hurdles in my gradual return to interacting with the public.
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Isolation has agreed with my inner Greta Garbo. But, inevitably, I'll have to learn how to function again in polite society.
Like a grizzly, it's refreshing to get out of the winter den . . . at least for the first few days. After an initial frolic and sniff about, it's always a little disappointing to realise that "society" and "polite" don't always move in the same circles.
The first sign that things were kicking off was a call from my hairdresser. Like a triage nurse, she's been trying to sort out appointments for her regular customers. I managed to secure a cut and colour for the shag pile on my head, so I'm off and running.
To be honest, my hair has passed the critical stage and is resting comfortably under close observation. So when my hairdresser rang I was happy for her to slot me in whenever.
I even stayed calm when I suspected that some pushy types had been trying to jump the queue.
The last time I checked, Kim Kardashian wasn't a client, so I'm not sure who would be pulling the old don't-you-know-who-I-am? trick.
My hairdresser has remained balanced in her determinations. She really should be a Supreme Court judge, but she'd struggle with the wigs which, let's face it, look like a dodgy perm/platinum dye combo.
With my hair sorted, it was cafe time.
I flashed my double-shot green tick at the cafe crew and said "I'll be taking a seat today, thank you".
I was super confident as - and I hope you are all sitting down - I had applied makeup. The war paint is back.
I say "war paint", but "mild-disagreement watercolour" is more accurate.
As I ordered a coffee, the cafe lad looked shocked.
"Wow, I must have done a smashing job on my eye shadow," I thought.
I took a seat and glanced at my phone. What the hell? Who designed this digital certificate? It's got your birthdate on it for all to see.
No wonder the kid at the counter looked like he'd seen a ghost.
I was contemplating going back into hibernation when my coffee arrived at the table.
I took a sip and thanked him.
"It's good to see your face again," he said.
I wish I could repay the genuinely sweet comment, but our service industry workers remain constantly masked.
We'll all get there eventually.
In the meantime, I'll continue reacquainting myself with the lost art of makeup.
I've also had to dig out some reasonable shoes. At this stage I'll be wearing flats.
Nothing with a heel.
Something tells me it's going to be a shuffle-before-I-strut sort of transition.
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