The shoe odyssey

I'm a simple person. I like stuff that works and I like when it works forever. Alas, my old Pentax gave up eventually and since I do a lot of photography, I finally scraped up the money and got a new camera. And, obviously, being who I am, I'm pretty pissed.
Yes, the shutter opens which is a great improvement but the sound is different and, more annoyingly, louder. I like my shit quiet, grrrr. And the buttons and knobs are in different places. The thing feels different in my hand. And it's just different, damnit.
On the other hand, my bespoke leather bag is still almost like new and will remain so for several decades so there's at least some equilibrium in the world.

I hate shopping. I mean, I'm fine with going to the bakery getting my bread. I hate going through shops and never finding anything I need. The other day, I needed to buy shoes. Ordinary black flats, size 42, US 12, black, flat, leather, decent quality. I had a bit of time so I went to a mall. In one store, they had various stuff made from a large choice of synthetics, up to size 41 and the clerks looked pretty annoyed when approached so I just left. At Bata, they used to have that little shelf with "oversize" stuff where one could find a few pairs of something sligtly boring by brands that tend towards the expensive side but on the other hands, leather, good fit, looks slightly boring but reasonable so I went to look. After not finding anything, I asked the clerk and she said that yeah, sure, but they had to restock the oversize corner all the time and it was too much hassle so they don't have it any more. I sighed, saying that I need some nice black flats in 42, is there a chance of finding something, the clerk replied, let me check, there's this in 42, and brought me a pair of brown pumps with 10 cm heels. I politely thanked, thinking that it's certainly vodka o'clock. In a nearby boutique where they do have my size on a semi-regular basis, I held up a nice black flat and asked Could I have this in 42?, the clerk went to rummage and said Sorry, sold out. After repeating this about three times, I asked Are there ANY black flats in 42; the clerk merrily explained that I must come at the beginning of the season when they have new stock because they send some choice of models and sizes from the central, and not everything arrives up to 42 and when it does, there is only one or two pairs and they get sold fast. I nodded wisely and asked why they do not restock the stuff when it's in demand? Well, the central doesn't like it, there's paperwork and extra hassle, you know. Something similar happened in another store with the gem of "These sell too fast and we had to restock them all the time so we don't carry them any more" and in another shop, the nice clerk was a bit apologetic and gave me the model numbers and told me to order them from the international website of the shoe company. At the Högl boutique in Prague, I said I want this in 42, the clerk looked at me via her nostrils and said This is made only up to 40, with the unspoken Go away, you poor scum.
Meanwhile in Austria... I wanted those Högl shoes. I went to hoegl.at, found out that the model in question is made up to 42, messaged my Vienna friend explaining that I absolutely need those shoes, can she do something about that. Said friend went to a Högl shop, said I want this in 42 for a friend, they said We don't have them in this shop but leave your phone number, please, we'll ask around. Someone checked around, they found out that not a whole heap of 42s in this model was made but there are some left, got a pair delivered from someplace like Salzburg boutique, called my dear Anna that the requested shoes are ready to pick. And that it would be better if I came to the shop to try them in person because even if I wear Högl shoes regularly, it's always advisable. Well, when I came to Vienna, my feet got so swollen that I could barely fit into my worn sandals.
Meantime, my dressmaker gave me the phone number of her shoemaker. I brought him the worn-to-death Marc Jacobs flats I kept at the bottom of the closet for the remote chance I would ever find an affordable shoemaker and said This fits great over my heels, make ones like that in black, thankyouverymuch. Some time later, I got lovely black flats that did scrape the skin off my heels but not any worse than anything off the shelf and the shoemaker promised to work on it. I'm saved. Also, I'll get green and burgundy Marc Jacobs lookalikes that fit better. And many more, because now I can go and get shoes instead of damn shopping for them.
Fashion spreads sometime later.

And that's the genetics I have to fight.

I'm becoming a sari freak. I'm easily enthused.

A nice bright blue one arrived the other day. I couldn't wait to wear it but I reasonably assumed that it would be too much of a shock for the office and I don't go out very much. We have a science fiction documentary film festival here so I grabbed the chance and went to the cinema for the first time after maybe two years. The high speed internet connection ruined something, after all.

Since I went out where 'out' didn't mean forest, garden or work, I dressed up in said sari. Apparently, the natives are generally very blasé, or it was the sweater I wore over it and a long flowing skirt, albeit in bright colour, didn't get noticed. In the hall where I was to pick my accreditation, I took the sweater off as it was hot there and during the time I hang around there, I heard a gal saying to her friend something like Hey, look, she's wearing a sari and that was it. What I noticed was that 90% of people wore something black and out of the few hundreds of people I saw, all but three wore the jeans blue-black-grey combo. Then there was me (alright, I had black shoes) and a young woman in white skirt and green tights, the barista in bright pink tee and that's all folks. It felt as if I fell into a giant jar of medicinal carbon.

Whatever.

I came home, parents were catnapping at the TV - well, my brain switches off when there's football on, they're huge fans so how did they dare - so I went there, mom looked at me and said What the fuck are you wearing, do you mean it, like, seriously, eyeroll eyeroll eyeroll? Without the slightest trace of snark, which was a tough job, I politely replied Now I noticed that I hadn't dressed up to your taste. Mom continued in her litany of random remarks. The more notable ones were This is just a length of cloth, You are insane to wear this and You really went out wearing this.

I tried not to laugh. Admittedly, said length of blue kosa silk wasn't patterned in elephants, Buddhas or whatever local idea of Indian may be so my poor mother didn't identify the length of uncut fabric as an actual garb. I didn't tell her because I'm mean like that although I sent her a wikipedia link and now it is up to her to get a point.

Gotta get a nicer black petticoat for my semi sheer black sari. Maybe the problem was the colour.

Kindgom for a bobby pin!

Bad hair day is rather a known phenomenon. It's a day on which bad hair happens to you while you don't have the opportunity to wash, dry and fix it neatly first thing in the morning.

Alright, yesterday I washed my hair. Don't wash out, said the conditioner, effectively conditioning my hair into a huge spongey thing.
Normally, I would brush it neatly and ignore the general lack of lustre. However...
My shoulder hurts like a freaking hell. My right shoulder and I'm right-handed. All I can do with my right is a small range of movements with my arm down.
For your information, I have waist-long hair. Being changed into a clump of something reaching only halfway down my back didn't improve matters. I hate blow-drying and it takes pretty long anyway.
The only option was to try as much as I can do with my left and fix the whole mess into a hippie chic chignon. In fact, my hair never got so bad that a loose chignon wouldn't make it look classy.

It however needs something to fix with. Hairpins, bobby pins, something along the lines, of which I have a bucketful at the other house. Not a single hairpin here. DPNs would do only for a very sleek style, I'm telling you, especially those brand new steel ones, not for a messy mess.

A few things from the backlog

I bought a few niceties these days and got showered with samples. One of them was Miss Dior Chérie L'eau. I expected a lot, the middle notes being described like gardenia accords made me expect something like my best beloved Une fleur.
Nope. At the first try, the thing was acidic and I put it in the category of No big deal. When shopping for something springy yesterday, I sprayed it on me to give it yet another try. The top note of orange essence makes a terrible mess and added the indolic qualities of white flowers, the result turns to Eau du Chat. Cat piss, if you wish. Thet good point may be that the scent is pretty persistent.
Eau de Chat went to the Olga's bag - she may pick whatever she fancies and we'll sell the rest and get us some more perfumes.

I did some shopping. So, I got a black fan – long time ago, I saw a pic of Karl Lagerfeld (when he was still fat, I think) in Vogue posing with one, with the logo of Vogue printed on it. I love black and I love accessories and I love fans which are moreover handy for good part of the year. The thingie will need a bit of customizing, I'll try to get off the gloss of the varnish by nail paint remover and instead of the Vogue logo, I'll add my own signature. Got me a Nancy Cunard style bangle. Not in ivory, just some indefinable wood for 9 euros... but I have a bangle large enough for my big paw. One. Out of many that were in the shop. Being a big-boned fashion victim is somewhat tough.
A propos of shopping, I checked several places and apparently, getting a hair bleach is impossible in this town. After fifth shop, I got the blondest colour of blondest. The woman photographed on the box looked a little teeny weeny bit darker than I.
The hair turned out passably well but it's not just the way it should be. I bleach my hair to have it bleached, not to get some golden blonde or how the hell the colour is called. But, better than nothing.