More disguises than Inspector Clouseau

Another frost! The wood is sheltered but it was still bitter overnight. In the early morning it was magical; a bleached landscape with a watery sun drawing a thick mist up from the ground to treetop level before burning it away to a warm clear day. That wonderful texture of half-frozen soil, like hot chocolate fondant - a firm crust through which one's weight breaks to a softness beneath. 

There are purple and white violets on the banks, mixing with the primroses and enamel-shiny celandines. The birds are so noisy at dawn that sleep is hopeless and its better to be up and out when no-one else is around, enjoying the hedges hazing green with the bursting leaves of hawthorn and bobbled with the tiny white flower buds of blackthorn.

Today I decided to venture into the local town for supplies. The cleaner pair of jeans, a hat pulled down over my long hair (which is beginning to show the absence of hot water, expensive shampoo and even more expensive conditioner); sunglasses; towel and dirty clothes in the small backpack - maybe there will be somewhere to have a good scrub in the town. Ready.

There's a bus that passes along the lane by the woods. I looked up the timetable online last night. So it was not such a hike to reach ****leigh, which is not so much a town as an overgrown, single street village. On impulse I walked into a sad little hairdressers and asked if anyone could cut my hair. A thin, silent girl clicked and combed, long strands fell to the floor and I tried to avoid thinking about how much I loved the weight and feel of my long hair. I wasn't expecting much from the cut but I was surprised by the transformation. A stranger looked back at me, with a short, feathery cap of hair that makes my eyes look huge and my face sculpted and fragile. It's the face of someone older but more vulnerable.

The transformation was partial; something further was needed and seeing signs to a swimming pool gave me an idea. Quick stop at Boots for hair dye and fake tan and then into the rather luxurious ladies' changing rooms at the pool. The place was deserted and I was able to lurk in a shower cubicle with today's newspaper whilst the dye 'took'. A wild, gipsyish girl met my gaze. She doesn't resemble anyone I know but I think I like her. She looks capable but fey; a practical fairy who with the herbs of the fields cures headaches and transmogrifies cats... maybe I am at last coming to terms with my heritage?