With outdoor dining there's no loo window to climb out of when the date goes wrong
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The problem with being on multiple dating apps is keeping track of what is been said and to whom. It is one of the reasons why it is best not to lie about anything – age, kids, job. Well, I’m being vague about the job, because “Hi, I’m Stacey and I pen a weekly dating column for The Telegraph” was always going to go down like a Brexiteer at a Notting Hill dinner party. I tell them I’m a writer – “them” being the operative word (at one point last week, there were at least 157 men requiring my attention).
I am a huge fan of declutterer Marie Kondo (bear with me), though I use her KonMari methodology with a light touch. If you have read her book The Life Changing Magic of Tidying, you’ll appreciate going the whole hog is a bit much: I draw the line at folding my underwear into neat squares. That’s just psychotic. Anyway, enough about my pants; I find going to bed with an inbox full of unread emails plain awful, and the same goes for the hundreds of unread messages on my various dating apps – it’s enough to bring me out in hives. The evening I decided to Marie Kondo the apps, shall now be known as The Night It All Went Wrong.
Devising a “tidying” method, I began the tedious task of answering every single message. I decided upon a filing system, which seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. One: anyone who makes initial contact by simply saying, “Good day?” doesn’t warrant a reply. I mean, how lazy. Two: anyone I had made contact with that answered with a noncommittal “Good day?” was filed instantly under “Can’t be bothered” (as in, you can’t be bothered so I’m not going to bother either). That eradicated 32 messages. Only 125 to go.
Point three of my filing system, and perhaps the most important of all, was that if I had exchanged several back and forths and they had offered up their phone number, this number was to be transferred to my mobile and a WhatsApp message sent out that day. Point three is where it began to go wrong. For starters, I didn’t know their surnames.
Having transferred a good 30 numbers to my phone, leaving only 95 men to deal with, I put down my phone and picked the kids up from school. It is amazing what four hours of fighting, homework, supper, bath and finally bedtime can do to one’s memory. After several hours I went back to my phone and began firing off WhatsApps: “Hi David, Hello Sebastien, Good evening Mark.” Messages were quickly replied to and suggested times to meet thrown out for me to diarise (by the way, if the job title Dating PA doesn’t exist, it should: there’s an entire untapped market out there and I’m hiring).
In the few weeks I’ve been dating, I have realised that committing to a full evening out that includes dinner (and therefore the unfortunate end-of-night-wrangle over who is paying the bill – more on that to come) leaves zero wiggle room for when disaster strikes. With outdoor dining, there are no bathroom windows to climb out of, and leaving early would have to be done in front of the entire restaurant. Instead, meeting for a noncommittal coffee is the perfect plan. So I thought.
I arrange to meet John on the Portobello Road in west London. John is an architect. John is six foot two. John has dark hair and blue eyes. John is 48. I arrive at the coffee shop and John is nowhere to be seen.
I am already a couple of minutes late, so I venture inside to order a triple shot of something or other and take a seat at a too-high wobbly barstool outside. It is sunny, and I am wearing dark sunglasses, but I am still very recognisable with my bright red hair.
I hear a soft “Stacey?” coming from somewhere to my right. Great, perfect timing to bump into one of the mums from school. How am I going to explain this one? Except it’s not one of the mums from school. A man I have no recollection of ever messaging – blonde-haired, just a bit taller than me – outstretches his hand and says: “Hi, I’m John.”
You see, the unfortunate thing about transferring far too many numbers to my phone in one go without any particular detail (and no, abstract WhatsApp profile pics do not help) is I ended up inputting surnames as John Hinge, John Tinder, John Bumble, John Inner Circle to indicate on which app we met. I thought I had arranged to meet John Tinder, when in fact this was John Bumble. John Bumble, I remembered, was actually a point four: men I don’t immediately fancy but will keep on file. Keep on file? Like a CV? Sincere apologies, John Bumble.
Marie Kondo, I think you and I are done. I mean seriously, who in their right mind writes a book about folding their knickers?
Stress has made my hair thinner
The stress of my separation and becoming a single parent during lockdown appears to have made my hair thinner. Unless it was always destined to go thinner at this age? Perimenopause and fluctuating hormones could be the culprit when it comes to thinning hair (ditto facial hair because yes, in some lights I appear to have the beginnings of a beard, which is attractive).
Thinning hair for me signals a loss of identity. My thick, red (OK brown, now a bit grey, but yes, it is dyed red) hair is my hallmark, my Wonder Woman wrist cuffs, my metaphorical red cape under which I can face whatever life throws at me.
I need it to be thick and flowing, and even though I’m apparently supposed to have shorter, more age-appropriate hair, I refuse. Having long hair at this age feels slightly subversive, because let’s face it, I’m at an age when women are supposed to fade into the background (aka anyone over the age of 40), and yet I refuse. My thicker hair post-separation has been possible thanks to a cocktail of things, one of which includes vitamins.
I love GROW by Hair Gain. Derived from organic pea shoot, it includes an exclusive ingredient called AnaGain, which the manufacturer states stimulates molecules within dermal papilla cells (ergo kickstarting hair growth). I’ve been taking two capsules a day and have noticed the little hairs around my hairline reappearing. Biotin is a key ingredient when it comes to hair health, so look out for vitamins that include it, such as Perfectil, which is reasonably priced. My beauty editor friends can’t stop talking about scalp stimulation, as in using pretty little brushes and gadgets to massage the scalp in the shower.
Apparently, it’s all about scalp exfoliation, too. I haven’t tried any scalp gizmos yet, but I have swapped my rather brutal plastic hair brush for a wooden one with natural bristles. Finally, I always protect my hair before blasting it with heat, as hopefully it will stop messy breakages and dreaded split ends. I use Kérastase Defense Thermique. It smells great, too.
And last but not least, as soon as her business re-opened after lockdown, I headed to Inanch London (inanch.com), a hair salon specialising in hair extensions. From women who have lost their hair because of hormones, to those being treated for cancer, Inanch works with an array of women.
With thicker hair I can take on the world. Maybe they can help you find your superpower, too.
Stacey's hair-care recommendations
1: Gold class thermal super brush, £20 inanch.com
2: Genesis Defense Thermique, £26 kerastase.co.uk
I’m saying goodbye to my winter coat and keeping warm in a quilt
This time last year, during Lockdown One, the majority of the country took to their back gardens in swimwear. Feet dangling in buckets of water, factor 50 slathered across foreheads: it was boiling. This year, not so much.
It has been freezing, and I am so over my winter coat I want to dry clean it and say our goodbyes until October. Finding it too cold for the traditional spring trench, I’ve been wearing quilted jackets. Forget images of your great-grandmother lying in bed with a cup of tea surrounded by padded lilac wallpaper, this season’s quilted jackets are boxy cut, mostly collarless, shorter in length, and come in an array of pretty colours and prints. Perfect for those “Get your coat you’ve pulled” moments – of which I’ve had precisely none. Though there’s always next week.
I have a cream one from M.A.B.E and wear it belted, but I also have my eye on a handmade one by British brand Home Brunn. Emma Brunn handcrafts slow-fashion future heirlooms from Liberty-print fabrics, and they are mostly made to order. It may not be as warm as last year, but at least we can keep cosy in style.
Five quilted jackets that are just right for spring
1: Liberty print jacket, £POA
2: Orna reversible quilted jacket, £119
3: Loris jacket, £265
4: Quilted jacket, £89
5: Esther Quilted Print Jacket, £120
