by Jessica Rowe
I had also been coveting a long, white Dolce & Gabbana dress that was covered in brown Bengal cats for many months before it was discounted online. Then I pounced for the purchase! It remains one of my favourite frocks and I wore it when I announced my resignation on air from Studio Ten. One of the conscientious wardrobe girls was adamant that I couldn’t wear the dress because of the pattern being too ‘over the top’. She was unaware of what I would be announcing on the television that morning and I was determined to wear a statement when I made my statement! I reassured her that I would deal with any heat from her superiors and promptly went into my dressing-room to get changed into my wondrous pussycat dress.
You don’t need to spend a fortune on fashion, as the simple act of teaming heart-shaped glasses you might have found at a cheap chain store with a slick of bright lipstick tells the world that you’re in a playful mood. Alternatively, even if you’re not feeling particularly playful but you want to project that mood, sunnies and lipstick can help fortify you for the day ahead. Other times your grey marbled T-shirt, jeans and thongs might say, ‘I’m all about comfort today’. Or you might say, ‘Stop being such a tosser, Jessica. It is, after all, only clothes!’ However, it is never only clothes to me. My clothes have become the timelines for significant moments in my life. I’ve donated to charity all of the coral, blue and pink Diane von Furstenberg wrap dresses, the crisp white Armani shirts and floral-patterned Escada jackets that the Channel Nine’s wardrobe department had bought for me during my time on the Today show. I’ve thrown out the outfits that I wore during my postnatal depression as I don’t want to be cloaked in anything from that time. But I still have hanging in my wardrobe the maternity dress that I wore when I went into labour with Allegra. That is the power of clothes.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
My hair is also a part of my daily fashion costume. I’ve had short hair for almost 30 years and there is no way I would ever grow it long. The reasons behind keeping my hair short are threefold: I haven’t got the patience to grow it, I wouldn’t recognise myself with long hair and short hair has become my trademark. And the man responsible for that trademark is the same hairdresser I’ve had since I was in my twenties. His name is Pierre and it’s the longest relationship I’ve ever had with a man. The screen icon Joan Crawford, who was a nightmare in many areas of her life, was, however, spot on in her praise of a good hairdresser.
‘I think the most important thing a woman can have, next to talent, of course, is her hairdresser.’
And, boy, do I understand the importance of my hairdresser. Pierre and I catch up every six weeks or so and, like most significant relationships, it began with a good opening line: ‘Your hair looks terrible. I could do a much better job.’
Pierre was a friend of one of my boyfriends, and a group of us had gone to dinner at a cool pizza restaurant in Bondi. It was the first time I’d ever eaten a caprese salad and I wasn’t sure about the gooey texture of the buffalo mozzarella.
‘Umm, okay then … Give me your number. I’ll call you,’ I replied, hoping basil wasn’t stuck in my teeth, slightly shocked by his honesty but most impressed by his cheek. All these years later, he still impresses me with his no-nonsense approach and dry, wry wit.
My hairdresser has been the one consistent man in my life. He has seen me through acne, university, heartache, marriage, IVF, pregnancy, depression, babies and career highs and lows.
Pierre humours me each time I sit down in his black leather swivel chair, as he knows exactly where our conversation will be heading because it’s the same conversation each time.
‘Let’s talk about my hair …’ I say.
‘Let’s not …’
‘I would like a change.’
‘No you don’t. If you really wanted a change, you would grow it and what you really mean is that you just want your hair to be shorter.’
This man’s a mind-reader as he knows that I’ve never had the inclination to grow my hair. And I love his honesty. He is always the first to tell me if I’m looking tired or if I need to keep those leopard-print harem pants for home.
Keeping my hair short has always appealed to the maverick in me and I’ve always managed to keep it short through my decades of working on television. Early on in my career, my ambition was clothed in pastel power suits and early morning starts in the newsroom, trying to get my stories of a cat stuck up a tree onto the evening news. However, some early signs of rebellion began to emerge with my choice of hairstyle. I resisted growing my short blonde hair into a ‘broadcast bob’, my description for that helmet of hair-sprayed, flicked, shoulder-length hair that many female TV presenters still wear on our television screens. One of my bosses had suggested growing my hair slightly longer so it would look ‘softer and less severe’ on the television. The next day I turned up with an even shorter haircut. He didn’t dare ask me again to grow my hair. Over time I realised my short hair was a subtle, or at times not so subtle, way of thumbing my nose at conformity.
My hairdresser says the salon should be a place of ‘relaxation and entertainment’ and that he wants his clients to leave feeling better about themselves. Sure, for many of us it’s about an aesthetic change but there have been plenty of times I’ve ‘changed’ my hair, hoping it will also help me on a deeper, more psychological level. I’m not the only woman who has gone to the hairdresser to wash that man right out of her hair. When I’ve broken up with boyfriends, I’ve changed my hairstyle. Believe me, there are many, many different ways to have short hair. Looking back through photos, I’ve had at least ten different short hairstyles over the years including: long fringe, the short fringe, the pixie, the buzz cut, the urchin, mini-mullet, the Mia Farrow, the punk, asymmetrical, and short and spikey …
When I was in the middle of postnatal depression and my career was in the doldrums, I decided to get my hair shaved and dyed platinum. When everything else was spiralling out of control, I thought that changing my hair would be a way to feel in control again, even if it was only for the 90 minutes that I was sitting in that leather chair. My buzz cut was a sign to myself that it was okay if I didn’t fit the stereotype of what a ‘good mum’ was meant to look like. Or perhaps such a radical hair change had been part of my losing control before I could put myself back together again? I’m not sure, but I know that hairdressers are like therapists and they’re cheaper than visiting a psychiatrist (I did make sure that I kept seeing my psychiatrist too).
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
I’ve become captivated by a woman of an uncertain age who goes to the local salon. Each appointment she brings in the same silver framed wedding photo of herself from years ago, and asks her hairdresser to make her look like that. Then as she sits waiting for the dye to return her hair to its crowning glory, she sits in front of the mirror applying electric-blue liquid liner to her eyelids. Her time-warped look makes her feel like that young bride all over again. And if that makes her feel special, I’m all for it!
A visit to the hairdressing salon may be about recapturing your youth, a place to feel better about yourself, a place to go to have a laugh and a place where you think you’ll be listened to since you have a captive audience in your hair stylist. However, here’s a hint from a salon insider: if your hairdresser just says lots of ‘Really?’ ‘That’s amazing’ ‘No way’ ‘Then what happened?’ and/or ‘Are you crazy?’ it means he or she isn’t really listening …
I’ve always been a good listener, especially if there’s a juicy conversation unfolding within my earshot. It’s a talent I inherited from my mother and now my youngest daughter has turned out to be a champion eavesdropper too. And there is always plenty of gossip to uncover at the hairdressers. I’ve heard of a very fancy salon that kept a society couple’s marriage together by preventing the wife from coming face to face with her husband’s mistress each month. It took some fine penwork in the appointment book and some strategically placed mirrors, but the staff’s thoughtful efforts have kept the dignity of this fine woman in place. The pai
r never had to meet up looking like bedraggled poodles over the washbasins. I understand that this détente went on for years, and everyone was able to keep up appearances.
Recently, I overheard a glamorous Carla Zampatti–clad woman telling her hairdresser that she felt invisible and that her husband didn’t notice her anymore. She then went on to reveal she hadn’t had an orgasm in twenty years of marriage. Perhaps there is something about sitting down in front of the salon mirror while the hairstylist wields his small silver scissors or best balayage technique that helps you to loosen your tongue.
Maybe it’s the intimacy of having someone in your personal space, touching your hair, talking to you without looking directly into your eyes that creates such a miraculous truth serum. Hairdressers don’t kiss and tell, so they know everything about you. The illicit liaisons, cosmetic surgery, the state of your mental health and the temperament of your cat(s). It can be tricky for some clients to hide those face-lift scars on their hairline when they’re getting that fortnightly blow-dry. Indeed, my hairdresser was the first person to notice I had botox—apparently my eyebrows were the giveaway!
Although I’ve had short hair for my entire adult life, what has changed about my style is that it’s becoming more flamboyant the older I get. It’s liberating to embrace the quirkier parts of my personality and that’s manifested itself in the colours I rinse through my hair and the way I team together my outfits in a more eccentric and vibrant way. It’s exciting to push the hair envelope by dyeing my hair pink and shades of mauve. A couple of times I flaunted these shades on the television but that didn’t go down well with my television bosses. However, I wasn’t going to be dissuaded, so with my trademark stubbornness I just went a soft pink occasionally and acted ‘surprised’ that my hair had bizarrely ended up that colour! Somehow I think my boss saw through my amateur acting. But now that I’ve left my television role, I have relished introducing more colours of the rainbow to my long-suffering hair follicles. Mermaid-blue hair has been my latest flirtation.
Usually I’ll speak to my husband a couple of times a day but recently, there was radio silence from me as I was at the salon while Pierre dyed my hair blue. I didn’t tell Peter what I was doing as I knew he’d rant and rave about my colour choice. He already knew something was up, but nothing prepared him for my surprise! Peter walked slowly up our stairs after a long day at work and I was already hiding in bed, with a scarf over my head!
‘Daddy, wait until you see what Mummy has done!’ Giselle called out, as she heard her father on the stairs.
‘What do you mean?’ replied Peter, as he walked to our bedroom door to see me throw my flower-patterned scarf off with a flourish.
‘Ta-dah!’ I said.
Peter didn’t say a word and just walked back down the stairs, furious. An hour later he returned wondering when he would get his blonde wife back.
‘Please, Pussycat, I just want my golden retriever-coloured wife! Please … even pink. Pink would be better than this. It looks like you’re ready to go to the nursing home!’
I reminded Peter that this blue hair would have gone perfectly with that mermaid dress I had worn all those years ago. Unfortunately, he wasn’t ready to see the humour in that but for now he has his pink wife back. Well, that’s for this month anyway.
CHICKEN AND PESTO SPAGHETTI
This twist on pesto pasta is courtesy of the super-talented Justine Schofield. This MasterChef alumni showed me how to make this easy meal that’s in her recipe book Simple Every Day. It’s an easy midweek dinner with protein so my husband can’t say he needs more meat!
Ingredients
1 tbsp cooking oil
400 g chicken mince (first time I’d ever cooked chook mince—and as you know I love a mince recipe)
400 g spaghetti
1 jar of pesto sauce (Justine has a recipe for fresh pesto, but I love anything in a jar)
parmesan to serve
Method
Place large frying pan over high heat and add 1 tbsp of oil. Add the mince and cook. It’s ready once the chicken has turned white and is cooked through (it takes about 5 minutes). Sprinkle some salt and pepper over the top.
Meanwhile, bring a large saucepan of water to the boil. Add the spaghetti and cook for around 8 minutes. Once you’ve drained the pasta, put it in the frying pan with the chicken mince and then stir the pesto sauce through.
Sprinkle parmesan over the top to serve.
Success rate
Three out of four family members enjoy this meal. Giselle will only eat pasta with bolognaise or tomato sauce at the moment. Also, she’s not keen on anything green so that’s another mark against the pesto sauce. But I know it can all change next week!
12
Cats
Time spent with cats is never wasted.
SIGMUND FREUD
I’m a crazy cat lady. No, I’m not a cat fancier, cat enthusiast or a cat lover. I’ve heard some cat fans shy away from the term ‘crazy cat lady’. And I’m not sure why, perhaps they don’t like the connotation of being a lady with hair rollers, who lives in a dressing gown, surrounded by her motley group of felines friends. Well, I often love to snuggle into my fleecy leopard-print dressing gown at home, my hair’s way too short for rollers and I only have three cats but I’m happy to wear the label of being a crazy cat lady!
My house is full of all manner of cat paraphernalia: cushions, cups, figurines, doona covers, salt and pepper shakers, coasters, snow domes and prints. Many of my clothes have varying degrees of cat prints: dresses, T-shirts, unitards, coats, pyjamas, undies, socks, sneakers and stilettos. Not surprisingly, I also have a fine collection of earrings, rings, bracelets and necklaces all with a cat(s) featured somewhere in the design. Some of my more thoughtful friends often send me links about the latest cat-featured fashion.
What is it that I love about cats? They’re elegant, stylish, wild, feral, independent, clean, aloof and, like my daughters, they don’t always come when you call them. I’ve also found cats to be the ideal companions; they’re uncompromising and won’t suffer fools but they’re also intuitive. Cats have a way of picking up on your mood and will either respond appropriately or not so appropriately. And it’s in my adult years that I’ve formed special connections with cats who have turned out to be loyal, loving and kept me from being lonely.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Quite simply, I’ve been mad about cats since I was a little girl. In an early black-and-white photo that I recently tore out of my mum’s album, there’s an image of me as a three-year-old. In this picture I’m already aligned with two of my great loves—dressing up and cats. On the top of my head I’m wearing an over-sized white cloche-style hat. My eyes are hard to spot under the brim but what you can clearly see is the tight headlock that I’ve managed to get around the neck of a giant, patient ginger cat. None of us can remember who owned the cat or where it had come from, but it was probably one of my first early encounters with cats. And from that moment on, it has been love at first sight.
My first ‘proper’ pet cat was black as night and named Pinkie. Dad had found her lurking around the carpark at the back of the offices where he worked. She was without a collar and took an instant liking to him, sometimes rubbing herself against his ankles. Clearly, this friendly cat was a stray and my father decided she would make the perfect addition to our family. He surprised us with this black cat one evening and while we screamed excitedly, the terrified slinky cat leapt directly out of the cardboard box and straight into the maiden hair ferns hanging from our ceiling.
Pinkie stayed in the hanging plant in our hallway for a long time, her yellow eyes flashing through the luminous green leaves. This became her favourite place to hide and she used to launch herself out of the ferns, digging her claws into the shoulders of unsuspecting visitors. She wasn’t terribly friendly but I still loved that cat. Despite getting scratched, I persisted with Pinkie and although she wasn’t keen on cuddles, I kept trying to pat her along with attempting to str
ap her into my dollies’ pram. And I remember being devastated when she got hit by a car just a few months after she joined our family.
A little later there was another stray, jet-black cat, who I named Vanessa, and who was only in our lives for a short time before she too disappeared on a busy road. She wasn’t into the hanging baskets but her preferred perching place became the top of our small black-and-white television set. Vanessa would drop her long black tail over the front of the screen and start flicking it slowly, left and right, while we tried to watch our favourite show Bewitched. If any of us tried to move her to get a better view of what magic spells the witch Samantha was trying to sort out, Vanessa would lash out with a swift swipe of her paw. She also wasn’t a very cuddly cat but I still loved her so.
Another pussycat made her home with us when we moved into another neighbourhood away from a main road. My sisters and I have conflicting recollections about where this tortoiseshell pussycat came from but I’m sticking with the version that we bought her during an outing with our dad from Paddy’s Market at Haymarket in the city. Just like Pinkie, this cat came home in a secondhand cardboard box. My sisters and I decided to call our new cat Mog after the cat in the Mog the Cat picture books Mum had read to us when we were tiny girls. Our Mog had white whiskers like wings and plenty of patches of orange and white fur through her short, stubby coat. Although she was a very plain-looking cat, I adored her, and unlike Pinkie and Vanessa, I had managed to get her to sleep under my doona with me most evenings.
Moggy kept us company through our parents’ divorce, Mum’s illness and my rocky teenage years culminating in my final year at school. Sadly, as I got more self-absorbed Mog got less of my attention and decided to spend most days yowling loudly from the rooftop of our apartment building. Once Mum had managed to coax her down, the attention-starved cat would waste no time in jumping back onto the top of our roof. One day I came home from school to discover Mog was missing but Mum explained that she had to take her to the vet for a ‘terrible abscess’ that had suddenly appeared! It’s now part of our family folklore that Mum took Mog to the vet to be put down, but she still won’t own up to her part in Mog’s demise.
