12 Jan 2021

I have vivid memories of having my hair brushed as a child. Amid the screams and carrying on – mainly by me but there’s a good chance Mum was going off as well – at the deplorable state of knots and/or birdsnests in my hair, my Mum would frequently throw the quote at me “It hurts to be beautiful”.

This quote was also dragged out when Mum tied bits of cloth (old sheets or pillowcases? I never asked…) in my hair and twisted it around – very tight – so I’d have ringlets the next day. I probably appreciated the effort, but I highly doubt it. I was, and likely remain, a fairly ungrateful hellion.

My tolerance for things that hurt has always been fairly low. I’m not big on getting things waxed, and have only had my earlobes pierced once, but I must confess to putting up with discomfort to get curls in my hair still. No old sheets are sacrificed for this purpose anymore. Just chemicals.

People with tattoos will frequently tell me how much this one or that one hurt, particularly if there’s not a lot of flesh between tattoo instrument and bone. But it doesn’t stop people getting inked.

I spent half an hour today having a certain level of pain inflicted on me by my chiropractor. She’s a lovely young lady, very knowledgable and good at her job. She also is the proud owner of a pair of thumbs of steel.

I know while Hayley is dealing with my back and neck and shoulders (it’s hard work lugging grandchildren and/or coffee cups around!), I know that the hurt will be worth it. I focus on this intently, while trying not to flinch tooooo visibly. And failing dramatically, it must be said.

How much pain do you put up with to be beautiful, or flexible, or better some how?