Some people never seem to change, but I’m fairly sure we all do.
I always thought I was a person who would never change. Made of cheekbones, workaholic, often anxious, inimitably optimistic, likely to jump on beds and sew things together badly. It’s a solid combo.
This weekend I went to visit my parents, and my Mum has created a veritable rogue’s gallery out of her stairwell. It’s full of photos of me and my little brother, and I realised that the changes really show. There was a point in my life where I was bright (almost platinum) blonde. There was another time when I thought I suited a pixie cut (spoiler: I don’t. At all. Never let me do it again)
When I was a teenager I wore a lot of black, and listened to a lot of shouty music, and was full of angst. Now I’m still full of angst, but it’s much more directed (and much more petty, really, because that’s what grow-up life is), but I wear brighter colours, and I listen to less shouting and more electronica.
This isn’t a usual post with gritty humour and acute observations (I wish) – it’s very much just ramblings as I realise how much I’ve actually changed. So I’ll just let this peter out slowly…