Change, adjustment, advance, development, diversity, innovation…. call it what you like.

Many years ago, when Colin and I met in Botswana, I was quite the yuppie. My image was very important, and I took care to maintain it. I had very short, very red hair. I wore classic Grace Kelly style polo neck tops in pastel colours– to show off my Granny’s Cameo necklace best, and I took my cigarette from a Yves St Laurent box and lit it with a matching Yves St Laurent lighter. I drank Cognac, not because I particularly liked it, but what is a Grace Kelly top and Yves St Laurent cigarette box without cognac? Other than an ice tray, my fridge was used to keep my Estee Lauder lipsticks in. Estee Lauder lipsticks weren’t made for an African climate, and had to be kept cool, unless you wanted your favourite colour to turn into liquid lips. I refused to stay anywhere where there was not an electric point for my hairdryer. Life is tough in Africa, and I was not going to make it any tougher. Oh, did I mention my perfume? Yup. Yves St Laurent.

Early on in our relationship, Colin decided to treat me to a trip to Swaziland. He booked at a resort that housed guests in traditional beehive huts. I guess it was the original glamping. There was a shared ablution block (yikes!). Going for a bath that evening, I opened the tap to rusty brown water. Absolutely never, I announced to the poor baffled resort manager and trying-to-be-romantic Colin, will I put a toe in that water. I do not care that it is pure mountain water. It is brown. Almost as brown as the spider that suspended deftly from one long leg, trying to make sense of my melt down. The next morning early, we packed up and left. No complimentary bottles of anything were going to have me bathing in mud water. And my perfume by now? Youth Dew. Which, with hindsight was neither youthful nor dewy. On reflection, it had a strange brown colour, almost like mud water.

Once the boys arrived, I conceded somewhat. It was not a choice; I was simply outnumbered. Boys like camping, in tents with no home comforts and bugs that crash into your forehead at night, as you negotiate the way to the – once again, shared ablutions, the path lit by a headlamp. I had a few ground rules. The tent had to be swept out every morning. Dishes were washed immediately after use. No gas lamps, it had to be an electric light (a.k.a. a bare bulb on the end of an electric cord suspended from the tent frame). And yes. An extension cord into the tent, where I could plug my hair dryer in. By now, I had children and could no longer afford Ms Lauder. Besides, it takes a heat wave in the Sahara dessert to melt a Revlon lipstick, so I was good to go. By now, my budget had bigger priorities, and I was quite happy to use the Red Door perfume that my sister bought me for my birthday.

I became leader of the pack when the Woolies generation raised the stakes. Nothing could beat Woolies quality. Not even the price. I bought my Mom Jeans from Woolies which I wore with my Milton jackets, I wore Woolies tights throughout the 90’s, with my leather Woolies shoes. Friday evenings, we would snack on Woolies meatballs and little samosas for supper. Woolies had a good beach to lounge range of cargo pants in pastel colours. My children sipped Woolies juices with their meals. Life was good and I was keeping it all together, in a whiff of Aromatics Elixir. That heavenly golden rich aroma, that was almost as blond and curly as my trying very hard to look like Sarah Jessica Parker hairstyle.

Time marched on, and with the boys grown up, career for a while took centre stage. My feet suffered high heels, while all the while trying to keep my secret socks on my feet and not have them shrinking into a little ball at the toe end of the shoe. I wore tailored jackets on hot days. The highlights in my once again short hair changed as often as my hairdresser felt inspired. I tried, but surrendered, and eventually would just agree to what she said would make me look younger, thinner… whatever. My gel nails never chipped colour, instead it grew out far too quickly. You know that little strip just below the cuticle. We all had it, and we all pretended not to notice. I spent endless hours in traffic, basking in the coolness of my airconditioned car. I never touched a carb. Mont Blanc Lady let you know exactly when I was in the vicinity.

We moved into our little farmhouse this weekend.  At the end of a very tiring day, I drew myself a bath. A golden-brown bath. Just below the house, is a dam, and water gets pumped straight from the dam to the house. As I slipped my head under water and felt the immediate softness of my wet hair, I savoured my thoughts of being so lucky. Good, pure water, from the mountain, the golden-brown colour a result of the tannins that the water absorbs as it flows down to the catchment dam. After my bath, I walked through the garden. I found an interesting greyish-green looking bush, and picked a few twigs, which I placed in a vase on the table in the house. The fragrance would come in little waves. Sometimes almost lavender, then a little twist of spice. Later that evening, one of the local ladies from the farm walked by with a very big bunch of the same plant. I stopped to ask what it is called. Wilde Als, she said. I turned to my trusted source of information: Google. Wilde Als is part of the wormwood family. It has medicinal qualities more intricate and defined than the average European Royal Family blood line. You can drink it, eat it, sniff it, smoke it or just simply add a bunch of leaves to your bath water.

That night, as I got into bed, Colin said: Interesting perfume you are wearing tonight. It almost comes in little waves of lavender and spice.

Change, adjustment, advance, development, diversity, innovation…. call it what you like.