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Friday, February 25, 2011

Bad hair phase


I dropped to my knees shaking in agony, various toiletries and hygiene products showering down on top of me. Holy sweet merciful christ almighty. In a miscalculated attempt to swish hair out of my face,  I had shaken my hair absent mindedly and with just my amazing luck, a strand of peroxide coated hair had flicked into my eye and been squished there by the delayed reaction of my eyelids shutting together. I used to think I knew what pain was but this was a completely new sensory experience. Desperately ripping off my little plastic gloves and crawling around on the floor blindly like a gasping goop coloured cockroach, I prayed and prayed to come into contact with a towel. Even crawling into door frames and toilets couldn't distract from my mission. I still believe that had I found a spoon there on the bathroom floor at that moment I would have scooped out my own eye...
2 minutes, (or in pain time: several eons) later I managed to climb up the sink, towel in hand, and hung there with my bare eye under the cold tap, whimpering. The searing pain didn't seem to bothered with subsiding and I started to have a life altering moment of thinking about all the things I would never see again, now that I had been blinded by a home hair dye kit. Uninspired, all I could think of was how I'd recorded last nights Skins and my now never get a chance to see it. Eventually my sight came back just as I began to panic about how I'd even find the remote control, and I after three excruciating blinks, I could peer at my reflection: Red faced and panting. One eye practically useless, bloodshot and swiveling around it's socket in a mad panic, the other one tearing up from my near blinding experience. As I straightened up, I watched the pus coloured goopy dye drip onto my shoulders after coming undone from the excitement. I was a sight for sore eye. The shiny black box laying on the floor, in all the aftermath caught my impaired sight. I squinted in fury at the blonde gorgeous model absolutely shit-a-brick happy beaming up at my from the hair dye box. That was how I was supposed to turn out. Sigh. Putting myself through all of this hardly seems worth it just for the sake of fixing a few pesky roots. But it's definitely better than putting myself through the trauma of going to the hairdressers.

I want my hairdresser to be my friend. I always have, and I always will. I always sit there lemon mouthed and smiling awkwardly every time I catch my stylists eye contact in the mirror. Meanwhile, in the chair next to me, another client seems to be having the funniest conversation there ever was with what appears to be their bff 4 eva + alwayz who is standing behind them holding the scissors. I try and I try and I try, but I've never met the right person. I did once have a brief relationship with a hairdresser. It did not end well. Since then I've been careful with my heart...y split ends.
 The year: 2005. My hair: brown. The boys in my town had really been testing my patience. I don't know if they'd been paying attention during any romcoms, like I had, but they had yet to realise that the bookish, unattractive brunette in the corner of the library was actually the girl of their dreams. I had to try another method before I could helpfully point it out to them that they were in love with me. Being me though, there was no happy middle. Learning how to use a comb or apply make up may have sufficed. I don't know if you all remember, but 15 year old boys are not exactly tricky to seduce. But no, as far as I was concerned, I had exhausted all avenues with the awkward nerdy girl attempt. With me, I was either one end of the spectrum, or the other. I was either radio waves, or gamma rays. I was never infrared. (My library phase featured a heavy interest in physics. The sexiest of the soul destroying sciences.)
  And lo, it was decided, I would REINVENT MYSELF. Being 15, I had only been 'myself' for about 4 days. Nevertheless, it was time to get a ridiculously cool haircut. This haircut, ladies and gents, was so ridiculously cool that it's 2011 now and it STILL hasn't come into fashion. I was that ahead of the game.
    I wanted a spikey punky little creation, with of course the obligatory pink streaks. I've seen the pictures, the only thing I can say is where was my mother when this idea went down. 
    And after going into my local salon one day for a trim, I found the man for the job. His name was Andy and we got on really well. I was over the moon. 'This was it!', I thought, 'my big chance.' 
   As I was paying for my trim, I proposed the idea to Andy. His face lit up like a stolen car in the corner of a field behind Dungarvan GAA pitch. At the time I saw his enthusiasm in a kind of creative 'I shall make you my masterpiece' kinda way. I see now all to clearly that it was obviously a ''SOMEONE HAS GIVEN THE MOST HYPERACTIVE CHILD IN THE PLAYGROUND A PAIR OF SCISSORS'' kinda way. I booked the appointment and strutted out of the hairdressers. Already I had the montage in my head of the day I would walk into school: renewed. I would be wearing sunglasses for no particular reason, and I would take them off in slow mo and shake my head and everyone would go ''oooh!''.
      I know what you're thinking. 'Oh Saucy! Another stupid mistake you've made in your life and have inadvertently used as blogging material. We can all clearly see at this point in the story that this haircut is going to end up looking horrific''. Sorry if I've spoiled the ending for any of you who were in extreme tension at this point, but yes obviously the haircut came out terrible. The shocker is that the actual haircut I chose isn't even the worst thing that happened me that day. Yeah, you're gonna keep reading now, aren't ya. 
     I arrived and nestled myself snug in the chair. I think I intentionally ignored the manic look in Andy's eyes as he eyed up a range of scissors and took his sweet time in selecting which one he was going to use to hack away at my locks. Cos me and Andy were so tight, we sat and chatted for a while about how we were going to do this. Together. He and I. I and he. 
     Andy explained to me that with the drastic change I wanted to do, he would have to do the job in three steps. (You would think the word ''drastic'' and the fact that I had to have a consultation and sign a permission slip before getting it done would have deterred me but no.) First he was going to cut my hair into a chunky Tetris blocky pyramid type shape. Then he was going to bleach where appropriate and apply the pink dye. Then he was going to snip away into my chunky lego layers and make me one funky chicken. Sound good?
 No. Of course it doesn't. It sounds like the stupidest haircut there ever was. But on with the narrative. Andy began to methodically cut into my hair so that it was in four very unattractive symmetrical blocky steps on either side of my face. If you can imagine, it looked for all the world like I was wearing a brown lego hat. But no matter. I stopped focusing on the haircut because OMG YOU GUYS, ANDY AND I WERE GETTING ON SO FREAKIN' WELL!
     I was beyond excited at this point. I couldn't wait for Andy and I to start having a really cosmo relationship and possibly creating our own secret high five, involving a finger click or three. We sat there exchanging hiiii-larious stories from our ker-azy lifes. Obviously he being a male hairdresser in a small Irish town (MAD!!!) and I being the kind of person who dyed my hair pink, we were both two kooky and off the wall for this one shaded horse town. If it weren't for the pure peroxide burning straight into my scalp, I wouldn't have known we were already on Phase 2: bleaching. Andy and I were having such a jovial time, we lost the run of ourselves. That peroxide was a little bit close to things like my ears and face. Andy was listening so intently to the interesting things that I was saying that he was smiling and nodding at me in the mirror, stroking the peroxide loaded brush over the same part of hair over and over again. Yeah, it was careless hairdressing, AND WHAT OF IT? We were having a whale of a time. Bonding. It got to the stage where even when we were silent I'd look up from my copy of OK! from 1999 and he'd look up hair, and our eyes would meet in the mirror. Usually, this is moment is so painfully awkward with any other hairdresser I'd choke myself with the nearest GHD cord. With Andy, we could just smile at each other and go back to what we were doing. We were like that. 
   And then it happened. I was nattering away about whatever laborious incident was overshadowing my stressful 15 year old life, and Andy flicked back his wrist in a gesture of sympathy to my tale of woe. So lost in my anecdote was he, that he momentarily forgot he was holding an extremely dangerous bottle of 100% pure peroxide in that hand, and it slipped from his grip. 
     What are the odds, would you think, dear reader, of that bottle falling from Andy's grip and his arm being the perfect distance from the floor at that point & the peroxide bottle being at the perfect weight that it would allow the bottle to spin so many times on it's descent to the floor that it would land at a precise angle. An angle so precise, say, that it striking the floor at such a force would cause an ejection of peroxide from the tip of the bottle and it would go directly (because it was at this perfect angle) into Andy's eye? If you were a betting man, how much money would you put on that ACTUALLY happening? Before you answer, pause, and think who's blog are you reading. Yeah, now reassess: What are the odds of this happening to me?
That's right. Extremely likely. 
Back to the innocuous 15 year old me sitting in the salon chair. All I saw was Andy drop something and then seemingly try to really enthusiastically pick it up on the floor by collapsing onto the ground after it, disappearing from view completely. I sat there for a few awkward seconds blinking at my reflection thinking, 'Oh Andy, you clown! Probably trying to initiate a really hilarious game of peek-a-boo in a minute by staying on the ground so long.' I was then more than a little irked when some of the salon staff came running over, ruining the game entirely.
'Andy, ANDY? Are you ok?'
I best turn around and see whats happening.
Andy was lying on the floor shaking in a way I had only seen performed by an upside down crab at the beach once. His mouth kept opening and closing until eventually what was (I'm sorry Andy) a very feminine scream came out. Everyone was very confused. No one more than me. 
What was this, Andy? Was it one of our private jokes which we'd talked about during Phase 1? If it was, I'm sorry but the reference was not very clear at all. Maybe it was some sort of installation art piece. If so I was going to like Andy very much indeed. He was quite clearly the coolest person ever. 
Eventually Andy managed to tear his hands away from his inflamed face and point at the bottle of peroxide lying beside him. It quickly transpired to everyone what had happened. Everyone except me of course. 
It wasn't until I was standing outside the salon with the rest of the staff (and even some other curious clients,) wearing scraps of tinfoil in my hair and my black cape looking like the worlds shittest supervillian, as they loaded up the ambulance, that they explained the situation to me. 
Andy had in fact managed to squirt pure peroxide into his left eye and was now being rushed to hospital in an attempt to save his eyesight. This Andy was the same man whom I'd sat and listened to for 40 minutes as he discussed how hairdressing was his only calling in life. How his life would be so mind-numbingly soul destroyingly void and meaningless if he didn't wake up to a scissors and comb every day. And I had potentially taken this away from him. I had visions of Andy in a dark room wearing two dramatic eye patches and sobbing aloud, now that he can't cry anymore, blowing a hairdryer into his own face just to FEEL like a stylist again. 
       This scenario is bad enough as is, you're probably forgetting that at this point me and Andy are BFF's so I was extra upset. Also I was 15 and a clusterfuck of emotions at the best of times, so I may have had a little lip wibble. Hairdressers being hairdressers they flocked around me and herded me into the salon with lots of ''ooh''s and ''aah''s and tongue clicking and ''aw hun!''. 
     A cup of tea later and to be honest I was sure Andy was going to be right as rain. One of the hairdressers, or Miss Lovelies as I called them from that point on, then brought my attention back to the other pressing matter at hand.
'Now Saucy, how are we going to sort your hair...'
'Oh yes well I guess you can just pick up there where Andy left off with the peroxide there...'
I caught the look on Miss Lovely #1's face as she let her eyes dart to the offending bottle of chemicals, a few feet away still lying at the scene of the crime. It was obvious she was going nowhere near THAT. She then composed herself
'Well um, Saucy, the thing is....before Andy was taken off in the ambulance...'
My face winced at the reminder of what I had already told myself would definitely be a repressed memory from now on
'...WHERE I'M SURE HE'LL BE FINE!!! Well, he said that am, he didn't want any of us to finish your hair...'
Very funny Andy! 
The look on my face must have said it all.
'Well the thing's such a big job and he was going to be so proud of it, he uh, wanted to finish it himself. When he gets out of A&E...'
I frowned. That's disappointing at best. I had a disco tonight and my reinvention was going to be put off. There was something niggling at me though, something I was forgetting....
The lovelies flocked around me and took me to the sink where they washed out all of the demon peroxide and sat me back in the chair for a blow dry. Well, at the very least my hair was going to be nice and glossy and straight for the night.
The penny didn't drop until the lovelies had completely finished drying my hair.
Lego hair.
ANDY NEVER GOT TO PHASE THREE. He didn't even get to the middle of phase two. I looked like the Sphinx. 
Half a haircut. I left the hairdressers with half a haircut. Certainly the worst half. And on the eve of a teenage disco. I was a Jacqueline Wilson novel waiting to happen. For the evening I sat with tears flooding down my face and 10,000,000 hairclips by my side trying to clip back the clumps of brillo pads which were my tresses. I would pull at strands and attempt to force them into a clip before realizing they had been cut unexpectedly and then screaming 'THERE'S NOTHING TO CLIP! I HAVE NO HAIR! I HAVE NO HAAAAAAIR!'
And that was the last time I tried to be friends with my hair dresser.

And so staring back in the mirror at my present day self, I kind of felt bad for Andy. If homedye hurts when you get it in your eye, I can only imagine what industrial strength chemicals were like. Also because I can see now that Andy had hoped I would be his little protegĂ©. I don't have to describe to you how bad that haircut turned out when Andy was finally allowed to take off his eyepatch. And so with a deep breath and gritted teeth, I pulled back on my little plastic gloves and set to work on those damn roots. Yes I am trusting my hair with the biggest idiot I know, but no matter how much I fuck it up it will never be as bad as that particular 'do was....*shudder* .

The Saucy Cow

Monday, February 21, 2011

And to my 17 year old self I say...NA NA NA NA NAAAA

I was under my bed, just staring at the underside of my mattress as you do, and I came across my essay notebook from school. There are some serious works of cringe in there from when I went through my ''TIME TO BE A POIGNANT WRITER AND USE LOTS OF SIMILES'' phase. Those will of course never see the light of day and I will be ceremoniously burning them later tonight. However, I found a TRUE story which I'd written when I was 17 which my 20 year old self took a lot of joy in reading. The fact that I know I'll never have to go through this shit again makes me want to share it with you all. ENJOY!


'My Greatest Fear'

Have you ever felt your whole body stiffen, and then sink and soften as though it were fudge in a furnace? Felt the deep searing pain as you swallow hard and wipe the stinging beads of sweat from your brow? Ever felt your stomach flop about like a fish just swiped from a river and discarded on a marshy bank?
        Ever been uncomfortably conscious of every hair on your head, every step that you take? Every eyelash and fingernail? Awkward and aware, like a deluded closet transvestite going for a smear test. Have you ever wanted so badly for this moment to end; to get it all over with; to give anything to know what will happen next? Just to be able to CONTROL the situation. The frustration! It's pot luck here, and you know it. The odds are against you but your hoping against hope that it will go your way this time. It could just as easily be you. Do you want it to be you? You don't even have time to consider that. In a mere second, it's over. Just. Like. That.
     Every feeling you felt before has been discarded like an annoyingly un-recyclable styrofoam burger box, and each one replaced by one much worse than before. A sick, sticky feeling takes over you. You deflate and collapse, the back of your eyes are stinging with tears of frustration which you blink away quickly with agitated pride. Your fists clench and you dig your nails into your palm. You bite your lip and hang your head. Your shoulders slump, defeated. Eventually, you turn around and walk away. If you've ever felt like this, you'll know what I mean. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Saucy's greatest fear: being turned away from a nightclub because you are underage.
        Is there anything more degrading in the world? It may possibly steam from my fear of mortification of any description. This is a whole other level though. There's no denying that walk of shame. All that effort, all those notions you had of being glamorous and trendy, dancing the night away with all these glamorous and trendy people. You just know it's like a Smirnoff ad in there*. And now what? Davitts**? I'd rather have terminal diarrhea, thanks. Sit outside the chipper sulking in a pit of self loathing? What about your friends? Psh. There seems to be an un-official code of 'every girl for herself'. Although you can't say much, you'd sell your nan to get into that club. Either way, you can understand my despair. 
       One night though, possibly after too many illicit blue WKD's, I decided I make my own luck. 'I am getting into this club no matter what'. I'd seen people chat their way in before, laughing jovially with the bouncers as they shove their cleavage in their faces before swanning past. I didn't really feel like profiting on the bouncers obvious dis-regard for state licencing laws in preference of some juvenile sexual assault charges. I wasn't cool enough to be jailbait. I'd find some other way in. I'd just staggered out of a pub, proud as punch. I saw gaining entry to this particular bar as the benchmark for how old I must be looking. In hindsight business was obviously very slow that weekend so an influx of over excited teens bursting with pocket money was clearly needed. Propelled on by some dutch courage and the laws of physics in my stilettos which were quickly gaining velocity, I strutted towards what were, at this late stage in the evening, the multiplying lights of my local nightclub. 'I.D?!?', I thought to myself. (At this stage I'm yelling drunkenly in my own head.) 'PUH-LEASE! As if a sexy little city slicker like myself needs I.D. I've just come from a BAR. Where they serve ALCOHOL. To PEOPLE. PEOPLE LIKE ME.' Tonight, I have armed myself with the do's and don'ts from past mistakes. I have my sensible 'I am a working girl' trench coat on, the standard issue for any desperate under-ager worth her salt. The big lapels of which are pulled up of course to conceal my ridiculous extensions and create the illusion of a 'I am leading a hectic over the age of 21 life' style bob. My cheeks are sucked inside my mouth, in the vacant area where wisdom teeth have yet to grow. This is to create the aged and chic expression, far too voguish for any baby faced 17 year old. I have my best bored expression stuck to my face to give the impression that I'm very blasĂ© about this whole 'going-out' scene. I obviously had to be dragged out tonight by my less cool friends. The only reason I'm going out in this tiny Irish seaside town is in a completely ironic and hipster way. I'm even frowning for optimum wrinklage. I also have a handbag and a watch, alien items which I'm trying desperately to act natural with and not fiddle.
            200 yards to go. It's showtime, baby! Whoops. With that thought I let out a delighted and involuntary ''woot!''. Control. Shoulders BACK. Confident now, sophisticated. Step left right clicky click  heels left right frowny frown. Look directly at the bouncers. You, yeah you baldy. I'm comin' at ya. And you're gonna let me in. Not only are you gonna let me in, you're gonna let me in FOR FREE. No. Bit much. But I'M GONNA GET IN. Stop staring at bouncer so much. Look at shoes. Nice shoes. Back up. Flick out phone and oh so casually check the time. Fuck. YOU'RE WEARING A WATCH WOMAN! Never-mind. Utilize this moment to ensure phone is on silent to avoid embarrassing Chris Brown*** ringtone situation. Step left right fake flicky flick of hair. Not too much. You'll ruin your disguise. I can see the door! Shoulders back as far as they will possibly go. Fixate dramatic 'I am meeting someone poignant in here' look on face. Quicken the pace a tad and....YOU'RE IN! Don't act happy...DO NOT SMILE. Ohmygodohmygodohmygiddygoodygod. On foot forward and............
                 WHOOSH! My goodness they have big arms.
'I.D there love, please'
I look up at him in my best surprised, 'who, me?' face. Although he doesn't seem to have his arm pinned around anyone else.
His expression remains unchanged.
Alright then.
'Oh you musn't be serious...ah....' no name badge, feck.'I'm QUITE the regular!'
My voice comes out a hell of a lot higher than I imagined in sounding in my head. In fact my mouth seems to have run out of water and a few raspy swallows are required before I can properly string the words together. Man, it's bright in here. I squint up at him hopefully.
Emotionless and bored he instantly replies:
'No I.D, no entry.'
Well I'm not having that. I falter for an absolute split second before I remember a key element and jump back into operation age 11 months in the next 3 seconds. I might not have been telling a complete truth when I said I didn't exactly NEED I.D earlier on. In my ugly handbag, (old people have ugly bags) I begin to fish around for the agecard which is a friend of a friend of a friends. But she has brown hair too so I reckon we should be grand. I smile in what I hope is a sexy and sophisticated way, but from Mr. Bouncer's grimace I guess it was just watery and sideways. I flash him the I.D as quick as possible concealing most of it with my hand while striding forward mumbling ''yeahwellgreat ok sooo thanksyeahcyaaa!!!'' but he cuts in front of me with the skill and swiftness of a Russian ballerina. To my absolute horror he whips the I.D out of my hand and holds it up IN THE LIGHT.
'You're telling me this is you?'
The lie is almost laughable. He looks at me.
'I've am....lost some weight recently.'
And also had complete facial re-constructive surgery by the looks of it. This is preposterous. I mentally prepare myself for the inevitable shame.
The bouncers eyebrows arch in disbelief as he glances from me to the I.D and back again, and then frowns gormlessly.
'Hmmmm' he says
My mouth hangs open. Clearly this man is an absolute idiot. Anyone who could ever even momentarily entertain the idea that I could BE this picture of a random stranger is obviously a moron. I get so wrapped up in concentrating on how striking the resemblance between this man and a monkey is I barely catch the end of the next thing he says:
''mumble mumble mumble....your name on it''
Oh. Jesus.My eyes widen to what I imagine is the berth of my had. Oh holy sweet mother of Christ. Abort abort abort. In all my meticulous staring at the I.D, trying to fashion my hair in the same style, I forgot to address a very important detail.
        I have NO IDEA of not only the date of birth on the agecard, I don't even know the name. Ok Saucy calm now. Oh jesus he must be able to SEE me sweating. If not smell it. I wobble from side to side a little. Were these shoes always this unstable? You have to salvage this or you will never ever get in again. He knows your face. HE'S STILL LOOKING AT YOUR FACE. My stomach churns, I'm not really sure why. You're past the point of no return but your legs are instinctively itching for the door. He's big, but he's bulky. Could you outrun him? Maybe you could run away and start a new life, in a new town, where you are actually 56 but have a chronic disease that makes you look 16 at best.....YOU'RE TAKING WAY TOO LONG TO THINK! HE'S LOOKING AT YOU STILL. Recover.
I smile sweetly. It takes a second for the words to fall outta my mouth.
''Sssshorry, what?''
'I said.' He is not a patient man, that's for sure. 'Do you have anything ELSE with your NAME ON IT?'
Have you ever wet yourself when you were younger, after bursting for a wee for ages? And something warm spreads through you, but you still have this awful feeling you're in trouble? That's how I felt right there.
'Ooooh alrighty. Am well....BEAR WITH ME NOW! You see what happened was...I must just ring my friend. She am...funny story! hahahaha...I gave her my wallet. With my atm card, and library card.'
Not only have I never owned I library card, I don't even have a bank account at this ploint in time. So to make this story more authentic, I look at him in a 'imagine that! Crrraaazy me! A yo-yo dieter who entrusts friends with large amounts of cash and I.D on a whim.' After four attempts, I punch in my best friends number. She answers and it is quite obvious from the bass drilling from my phone that she is on the dancefloor several feet away.
'Hello Michelle darling....''
''BLAAAAAA MICHELLE! Michelle....Ahem. Michelle....could you pop out with my wallet there love hahaha yes yes I know, haha no no, not letting me in! Think I'm underage! hahaha yes imagine. Hahaha...''
I slam myself against a wall and slump there with my back to the bouncer.
'Michelle listen to me. I have no idea what the name or age on the agecard you gave me is....'
'Did ya loose it?'
'No....the bouncer has it'
'And where's he?'
'....beside me.'
'Michelle? hell....'
I sit there seething silently as I listen to Michelle not only get a good laugh out of the situation, but listen to her re-tell the story to all around her before they collectively gather whatever information they knew about the fraudulent identification. I eventually understand that my name is Sarah Welsh and my date of birth is the 12th of June 1985. 1985?! I couldn't even name a song from that year, never mind a person.
I turn back to face the bouncer. I can tell he and I have not hit it off.
''Well! It seems she's run off with my wallet! hahahahahaha''
I laugh, but he doesn't.
He sighs. He must be getting sick of this now, I know I am.
'FINE. What's your date of birth?'
''12th of June 1985''
He pauses. I doubt he believes me but I know I'm slowly tearing down his spirit.
'What's the year again there?''
'...1985' it sounds even more ridiculous the second time. I hesitated. Did he notice? I better seal the deal. I take a stab in the dark....
'I'm a Pisces!'
Just as I begin to panic and hope he's not an astrology fan, or worse, a Pisces, a voice interjects:
'Ah sorry there?'
Me and the bouncer whip around. It's a lad from town I know called Joe. I notice the recognition on the bouncers face. This dude knows people. My heart flutters and I actually release an audible yelp of hope. I hope no one noticed.
'Ah yeah. You know me, and this girl.... is older than I am'
Between me and the bouncer, I can't tell which of us is more shocked. Bouncer-ape scratches his head in confusion. YESSS!!! I look back at Joe, awestruck. He's casually leaning against the door of the club with his arms folded and he gives me a reassuring wink and I almost explode with delight. All he needs is a matchstick in his mouth and he'd look like Fonzie. The bouncer stares at Joe.
Joe nods. The bouncer falters. Oh my god.
I had never had feelings for Joe that went beyond the realms of friendship, but at this moment, as I painted a halo over his head I could see us having kids together. And I was but a child myself at this stage. THAT HAPPY.
'Right. Fine. You, once again, what's your date of birth?'
I reply at the speed of light.
Joe nods to confirm my ridiculously over the top age. The bouncer frowns, and finally, in the most beautiful movement I have ever seen, steps aside to let me pass!  
Oh my goodness. It's so beautiful. The holy grail of hormones and over-priced alco-pops. I stumble forward in a trance...already putting a twist on the story in my head to make me sound cool when I re-tell it to everyone inside. Ooh they're going to think I'm so....
'Hold on'
I turn around and face the bouncer, BEAMING.
The bouncer squints at me and then turns to Joe and says,
'What's her name?'
Oh no. Oh nooooo. The sweat drops from my neck to my tail bone so fast I feel like I've wet myself through my arse. Time slows down to an impossibly slow pace. I widen my eyes at Joe but he grins at me in what he probably thinks is a really reassuring, 'I got this' kinda way. I can feel everything crashing down around me. I feel dizzy. For a second I concentrate really really hard on Joe's face, desperately hoping that this will be the moment my telepathic powers kick in and I can somehow communicate with him that my name, is in fact, Sarah Welsh. Aka the name on my fake I.D. If I had managed telepathically communicate with Joe...he did a really really good job of acting as if nothing had happened.
Oh god. I look from the bouncer to Joe about 6 times anticipating what's going to happen next, and how I NEED TO STOP THIS. But my stilettos seem to be super-glued to the floor.
Joe opens his mouth, and drawls:
'Saucy, her name is Saucy Cow.'
For a blissful second nothing happens. Then unfortunately, a second later, everything seems to happen.
Time speeds up again and the bouncer catches me by the elbow and drags me outside, past a very confused looking Joe.
I stand back outside in my rightful place, where it is now raining as Monkey-Bouncer and two of his amigos who have appeared out of nowhere surround me. They stand there, arms folded like something out of The Sopranos, positively glaring at me in a, 'SO! You think you can withdraw our right to humiliate you and kick you out of a club eh? Well, WE'LL SHOW YOU HUMILIATION.''
Questions questions questions fired at me left right and centre.
'Do you know what you just tried to do was illegal?'
'We could have lost our licence....I could have lost my JOB....'
''s little brats like you who should be home studying for the leaving cert.....'
'......are you even OLD ENOUGH to sit the leaving cert?....'

Each statement feels like its smacking me across the face like a wet fish. I don't feel good. I can't focus on one answer. Oh god. I feel the shame and truth building up inside me. Wow, I really do feel terrible. No like, really terrible....which question should I answer? Oh god how will I get home. Ugh they're still yelling! The air tastes really stale out here...what if I....
I literally feel the answer exploding from inside me.... before a voice from SOMEWHERE screams:
My outburst felt like a liberating explosion. It wasn't until I opened my eyes to find myself bent over and remarking that someone had just been sick on Mr. Bouncers shoes that it hit home that it had been a literal the undeniable smell of Smirnoff ice wafted into the air and I tasted vomit from my own lips. I peered up at Bouncerzilla. Unimpressed was not the word.

As the door closed on the Garda car and my head lolled in shame and drunkeness onto my chest, the jolly rotund garda tried to reassure me that 'this happens all the time', and something about 'stories of your youth' and 'appreciate the days of being a teenager'. The small section of my brain that still operated sensibly recognised that he was right. I should be in no rush to grow up. And this will probably be a hilarious anecdote to share with trendy people in nightclubs at a later date. However, the other, more overpowering side of me was screaming: ''I cannot wait to be 18....''

The Saucy Cow

* Let me assure you I've since realised the nightclub in question is NOTHING like this.
** That place is still a hole
*** Well if I knew then what I knew now, having that ringtone would have been a HELL of a lot more embarrassing anyway.....