Head First Web Design: A Brain-Friendly Guide
Ethan Watrall & Jeff Siarto
O’Reilly Media
ISBN 978-0-596-52030-4, 495 pages
US $49.99, CN $49.99

"Uh-oh," I thought, as I opened the package, "this is a very large book." But a quick flip through revealed that there were plenty of illustrations, examples and exercises, and lots of white space. Not so much text to read at all.

I admit I’m a sucker for snappy book titles. How could anyone resist "Head First Web Design: a brain-friendly guide"? Would it live up to its title?

Let me state up front that this is a really useful book. Not madly inspirational, but definitely useful.

A while ago, in another book review, I mentioned contents pages which go on forever. This book’s Table of Contents occupies 13 pages! But it’s different. First there is the TOC (Summary) … just the bare basics. Then you get the TOC (the real thing). This latter expanded TOC is great. Each chapter begins with an explanatory paragraph followed by the list of subheadings. It works as an excellent overview of the whole book.

At this point, I must make a confession. I am not in the intended target audience for this book. In the Introduction I came to a section describing who the book is for. The following excerpt may help you decide if this book is for you:

If you can answer "yes" to all of these:
(My answers are in brackets)

1. Are you comfortable with XHTML & CSS but don’t have any experience with web design? (NO)

2. Do you consider yourself a web developer (working in a fun environment like PHP, Ruby on Rails, .NET) (NO)

3. Do you need to understand web design for a course, your line of work, or you simply want to impress people at parties with your vast knowledge of The Golden Ratio and the Web Content Accessibility Guidelines? (ER … I DON’T THINK SO)

this book is for you.

If you can answer "yes" to any of these:

1. Are you someone who doesn’t have any experience with HTML/XHTML & CSS. (YES)

2. Are you an accomplished web or graphic designer looking for a reference book. (NO/YES)

3. Are you someone who likes to build webpages with tools like Frontpage and Dreamweaver, so you don’t ever have to look at code? (I’D LIKE TO BE)

this book is not for you.

The truth is I am a graphic designer who is sometimes asked for advice about website design. I have designed only one website myself, which is not yet live. I have made no attempt to build a website, though some day I hope to produce one for myself, provided I have a techie on hand to fix any problems.

So, am I qualified to review this book? Hell yes. The book is about web design after all and I’m certainly able to judge whether sound design principles are being applied.

So here goes …

The Introduction focuses quite a bit on explaining why the authors’ approach is, indeed, brain-friendly. There’s some interesting information on how to "trick your brain into thinking that your life depends on knowing web design" so that it will remember what you learn in the book. Based on my knowledge of learning techniques (which I absorbed during my teaching years) I think it probably works.

My original intention was to read the book right through and do all, or most, of the exercises. but the authors’ number one piece of learning advice is to slow down. So in the interests of having the review done in less than a year I decided to do only a selection of the exercises. These exercises would be truly useful if you can resist the urge to cheat (the authors’ solutions are given on the following page, but I didn’t tell you that, did I!)

Each chapter uses a hypothetical website to take you through the process of developing the design. Emphasis is placed on user-centered design – meeting the needs of the client (something that graphic design professionals sometimes forget in their haste to produce glamorous designs).

You are advised to draw up a blueprint first, and to create a storyboard on paper before sitting at the computer, and certainly before doing any coding. I agree this should be done before the coding, but personally I can’t see any reason why the blueprint and storyboard can’t be done just as effectively on the computer. A graphic designer can produce classy sketches, but others might have nothing but messy scribbles to show the client, who might then be afraid the end result might be similar.

All the necessary elements are covered in the book: pre-production (very important); site organization; layout and design principles; use of color; navigation; writing for the web; accessibility; and more. There’s a useful chapter at the end on the business of web design. I especially liked the Appendix-Leftovers: The Top Ten things (we didn’t cover).

Head First Web Design is a book I intend to study more carefully, both for my own purposes and to give advice to clients.

The featured web designs may not be spectacular, but that’s appropriate for a book for non-designers, where a sound, functional, attractive-enough design is more relevant.

The style of the book is simple, down-to-earth, intelligent and witty. The exercises have substance. Anyone putting the recommendations into practice should end up with a nice-looking website that works.

Conclusion

Yes, definitely a brain-friendly guide.

MyMac.com rating: 4 out of 5

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presentationZen: simple ideas on presentation design and delivery
Garr Reynolds
New Riders
229 pages
ISBN 13: 978-0-321-52565-9
ISBN 10: 0-321-52565-5
US $29.99, Canada $32.99, UK £21.99, Australia ?

Since reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance some 30 years ago, I’ve been attracted to books with Zen in the title. In fact, it was a book called Zen and the Art of the Macintosh (by Michael Green, published in 1987 but now out of print) that convinced me I simply must have a Mac. Get yourself a used copy from Amazon. The book is sheer delight and encapsulates the early magic the Macintosh.

It was little surprise, then, that I impulsively volunteered to review presentationZen, despite having no spare time whatsoever.

It took a long while for the book to reach me in Australia from the publishers (perhaps to allow me to clear a space for it in my cluttered life). I was surprised when a package was delivered to my front door one morning, and when I opened the envelope my first impression was that it must be an art photography book I’d ordered and forgotten. I knew immediately I was going to like this book.

I lingered over the front cover of presentationZen with its deceptively simple asymmetric balance. I lingered over the back cover and the photo of the interestingly handsome author, Garr Reynolds, but I swear that didn’t influence my rating one bit.

Tearing myself away from the photo, I looked inside and flipped through the pages. The layout, appropriately, reflected the Zen concept of space and simplicity. Illustrations and typography underlined the message, with white space and color used to excellent effect throughout. Just enough and no more.

The table of contents was easy to scan, unlike those highly detailed TOCs that take 15 minutes to plough through. The foreword is by Guy Kawasaki: "As far as I know, the first foreword in history presented in a book as a series of PowerPoint slides."

A word of warning: If you have to deliver a presentation in a couple of days’ time, and you want to pick up some quick tips, presentationZen is not the book for you. And if you want a easy step-by-step approach to presentation mastery, this is not the book for you. As Reynolds states, "There is no short and quick road to presentation excellence. Learning to become an exceptional presenter is a journey." If you aspire to becoming a superb presenter, and are prepared to put in the time, then you’ll find presentationZen invaluable.

There are three major sections in the book: Preparation, Design, and Delivery. Throughout, Reynolds focuses on the Zen principles of restraint, simplicity and naturalness. He advocates doing most of your preparation away from the computer, and warns against getting caught up with technique. He stresses the importance of story, and connecting with the audience. He uses Steve Jobs as an example of a presenter-par-excellence.

The Design section gives a truly excellent overview of design principles, with plentiful "before and after" examples to show the reader how to apply these principles. These can be applied in other areas (and life itself), not just to presentations.

Most of us have suffered through the "death by PowerPoint" style of presentation. You know the kind — slide after slide of bullet points overlaid on fussy, clichéd PowerPoint templates, while the presenter droned on, often simply stating what was already on the slide. If the lights were out, you probably, like me, grabbed the opportunity for a nap. At the end you get a printout with exactly what was on the slides, so why try to stay awake?

presentationZen delivers everything you need to become a presenter who stands out from the crowd. If you apply even a few of the principles you will undoubtedly reduce the death-rate by PowerPoint or Keynote.

Is there anything I didn’t like about this book? Just one minor issue: the table of contents does not reflect the rather unusual chapter numbering in the body of the book. I found this strangely disorienting when trying to get an overview.

One final caution: As intimated earlier, I have long been interested in Zen principles, so I found the book fascinating reading. If Zen is not your thing, you may not be quite so attracted. However, it does not depend on an acceptance of Zen and the presentation guidelines are completely practical. The section on design alone is well worth the purchase price.

There’s a nice bonus. With the purchase of the book, you get to choose ten free photographic images from istockphoto.com.

(Be sure to check out Garr Reynolds’ blog at http://www.presentationZen.com.)

MyMac.com rating: 4.5 out of 5

Having accepted the invitation to join this blog, I suppose I’d better write something. But what do you write when you’re allowed to write anything at all? That intimidated me for a few minutes, but not having anything in particular to write about has never stopped me before, so why should it now?

The thing is, I’m in rather august company, so I feel I have to lift my act at least a little. However, it’s morning here, and I’m not at my best in the morning. That’s my excuse today anyway.

All this talk of snow and icicle lights makes me feel underprivileged. Australia doesn’t have snow at Christmas (not much of Australia has snow any time). Everything is hot hot hot. And we don’t have the bewildering variety of lights Beth describes. I’m just going to string those pretty little round ‘fairy lights’ (that’s what I call them anyway) on the real tree on our front verandah. All they can do is blink … in unison. Sometimes they forget to do that and all we get is a steady light. They’re pretty old, so I guess a steady light is quite an achievement.

Usually I don’t put any other decorations on the tree. When it comes to Christmas trees (but nothing else) I’m a minimalist.

I haven’t put the lights on the tree yet. To tell you the truth I don’t know where they are. This happens every year. They’re probably in one of the multitude of boxes under the house, but not the one that says ‘Christmas decorations’. I’ve been fooled by the label many times before. Hopefully we’ll find the lights before Christmas Eve. We’ve told ourselves it’s a family tradition to put the lights on the tree on Christmas Eve – before we go to midnight Mass at the wonderful nominally-Catholic but really non-denominational St Mary’s church at South Brisbane.

Our other family Christmas tradition is to leave the Christmas cards strung up in our living room till December the following year.

It’s good to have a tradition or two, don’t you think?

A friend included this on a Christmas card. I thought you might like to know what REALLY happened.

THE CHRISTMAS STORY
——————–
There were some drovers, camped out in a paddock nearby, keeping an eye on their mob of sheep that night. Their eyes shot out on stalks when an angel of the Lord zapped into view, and the glory of the Lord filled the air like a thousand volts of electricity.

The angel said, “Stop looking like a bunch of stunned mullets. Let me give you the drum, the good oil. It’s top news for the whole crew – everyone, everywhere. Today in that little town on the hill a rescuer has been born. He is the Promised One, the King, the Lord. And here’s how you’ll find him: the little nipper is wrapped up in a bunny rug, and lying in a food trough.”

And before you could say, “Well, I’ll be blowed!” the whole sky was filled with more angels than you could count, all singing away at the top of their lungs (if angels have got lungs, that is), “God is great! God is bonzer! And to everyone on this planet who’s on God’s side, peace and good will. And by the way, Happy Christmas.” (Which rather confused the drovers, because they’d never hear of Christmas before.)

Suddenly the whole choir had nipped off in the blink of an eye. The drovers said to each other, “We’d better make tracks to Bethlehem and have a squiz at what’s happened – check out this message from God”

So the lot of them shot through like a Toorak tram to Bethlehem, and they found Mary, and Joe and the baby who was, sure enough, wrapped in a bunny rug and lying in a food trough. When they saw this they told every Tom, Dick and Harry about what had happened, and everyone who heard the story was blown away by it.

But Mary just made a mental note of these things and tucked them away in a corner of her heart.

The drovers went back to the paddock and their mob of sheep, as excited as a race horse on Melbourne Cup day, and saying what a bottler God was, because everything was spot on – just as they’d been told.

—

It’s all true. Really!

And just to finish off, a few lines from an Australian Christmas carol :

Oh little babe of Bethlehem
The Southern Cross shines down
Where once a star shone glorious
Above an eastern town.

You know, I don’t think Wal-Mart has made it to Australia yet. Should I be thankful?

Beth, I can’t believe you’ve done your Christmas shopping already. There are still 2 weeks to go for heavens sake.

We do our Christmas shopping – you guessed it – on Christmas Eve. Another Glover family tradition. We always make sure to drop in at my favourite store, David Jones. They have wonderful, classy decorations, and angel choirs singing a cappella. Truly! When the angels need a break a handsome young man in coat-tails plays classical music on a grand piano. It’s lovely and quiet and peaceful there. All the noisy people are at the Myer store at the other end of the Mall.

David Jones, as you might have guessed, is a rather exclusive store (I have an account there, just so I can pretend I’m rich), but you can’t buy the same quality goods anywhere else for less, AND they double the warranty on electrical equipment. And their customer service is simply wonderful. On one memorable occasion, I felt faint and ill just as I alighted from a bus outside their door. I sat down at the bus stop with my head between my hands because I thought I was going to either throw up or faint. People looked at me strangely and kept clear. When I had slightly recovered, I went into DJs and fronted up to the information desk, thinking they might have somewhere in the store where I could lie down.

The young woman behind the counter (why do they call counters ‘counters’? … oh, I suppose it’s because that’s where, in the olden days, they used to count the money you gave them) called someone to take me upstairs to their in-store nurse. This marvellous woman sat me down, took my temperature and blood pressure, called my workplace to tell them I wouldn’t be in, ascertained that there was nobody at home to look after me, made me a cup of tea, then encouraged me to sleep on a comfy bed for as long as I needed. After an hour she called a cab and sent me home … and the store paid for the cab.

David Jones got a lot of mileage out of that good deed. I think I’ve told everyone I know, and no doubt they’ve told others and the story has probably passed into retail store legend territory.

Anyway, I’ll be a loyal DJs customer until I die, unless there’s a Wal-Mart takeover or something.

What I was going to tell you, before my mind wandered, was that you can get the classy Christmas decorations at half price if you go late on Christmas Eve. I think I’ll do that this year because I’m feeling a bit out of things, what with Beth talking about poinsettia lights (I can’t even imagine what poinsettia lights would look like, other than poinsettias, which doesn’t seem all that appropriate for lights). Then I’ll have to dash home to complete decorating the tree while it’s still Christmas Eve … or perhaps start a new family tradition.

Your story of the angry woman, Beth, made me think of another occasion when I was idly standing outside our car (waiting for my husband to do whatever it is that keeps him in the car for minutes longer than I expect), gazing dreamily at nothing in particular (as one does), and musing on the loveliness of the dusk, when suddenly I was confronted by a very angry woman who spat, “Who do you think you’re staring at?”

Startled into retaliation, I spat back, “I didn’t even SEE you, you stupid woman!” If Melisanda had been in a better mood I would have said, “I was just thinking how beautiful you looked with the setting sun lighting a halo round your lovely red hair.”

I hope I get an opportunity to rerun my life so I can use all the great lines I’ve thought of after the event.

I bet that angel influenced you to bring the platypuses together. Actually, the bronze one doesn’t really have a platypus ‘feel’ to it. There’s something strange about its hind-quarters. They don’t have distinct haunches like that, just these little web feet that stick out the side. The tail isn’t quite right either. The platypus box is very platypussy though. I LOVE that box. If you were Spanish you’d have to give it to me.

They’re darlings, but very shy – an Australian characteristic you’ve no doubt noticed.

The pattern around the edge does look vaguely Maori-like. Certainly not Australian Aboriginal.

By the way, I’m not sure the Tasmanians would be thrilled that you spoke of Australia AND Tasmania, as if they didn’t belong or something. They feel neglected and forgotten as it is.

You do have a lot of Australian paraphernalia, don’t you John. I’m sure it all means something. I can hardly wait to see what forces are unleashed by the coming together of the two platypuses, even if one is a pretender.

PS I’m not scoffing at your angel. I wish I’d meet an angel.

From Glynn Nicholas

http://www.ache.com.au/ache/main/index.php

‘I was talking to some friends of mine who have recently returned from a tour of the former Soviet Republic. They had met a  Russian couple who told them a true story which I would like to share with you.

They were walking down the street in St. Petersburg one night, when the man felt a drop hit his nose. “I think it’s raining,” he said to his wife. “No, that felt more like snow to me,” she replied. “No, I’m sure it was just rain, he said.”

Well, as these things go, they were about to have a major argument about whether it was raining or snowing. Just then they saw a minor communist party official walking toward them.

“Let’s not fight about it,” the man said, “let’s ask Comrade Rudolph whether it’s officially raining or snowing.” As the official approached, the man said, “Tell us, Comrade Rudolph, is it officially raining or snowing?” “It’s raining, of course,” he answered and walked on. But the woman insisted: “I know that felt like snow!”

To which the man quietly replied: “Rudolph the Red knows rain, dear.” ‘
—
Groan.

But there’s worse:

‘Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader were having a friendly father-son light sabre duel. Darth backs Luke into a corner and says “I know what you’re getting for Christmas!” “NO!” Luke screams back “How do you know?” Because…” said Darth Vader “I felt your presents!” ‘
—
OK, I’ll be quiet now.

I have a confession to make. This year we broke the family tradition … but it’s not my fault. My husband made me do it. He phoned me at work last Friday and suggested we meet in the city in the evening. Friday night is late shopping night in ‘downtown Brisbane’ (if I were to lapse into American-speak), and there’s always an air of festivity and bonhomie so I readily accepted the invitation.

(Some of my American friends are aghast at the thought of only one late shopping night per week. This only applies to the city centre though … in suburban malls the supermarkets are open every night till 9pm. This is not something I care about much. In fact, I rather hope we don’t become a 24-hr-a-day shopping city. Friday night wouldn’t be special any more.)

Then I realised the purpose of the meeting … he intended that we do our Christmas gift shopping.

I felt guilty. I’d told you all I didn’t shop till Christmas Eve. Yet here we are with still 8 days to go and we’ve bought all our gifts. What next – early lights on the tree perhaps? I would if I could find them.

Another Christmas item I’ve ‘misplaced’ is a lovely ceramic wreath which plays ‘Greensleeves’ in music box tones when you pull a cord. I suppose I’d have to sort through ALL the boxes to find that.

A child sat beside me on my ‘writing seat’ this morning. A beautiful girl-child with thick tendrilly hair and bright sparkling eyes. “Can I sit here?” she asked. “Certainly,” I said, “are you tired?” She said she was, but she didn’t LOOK tired. Her mother arrived, smiling (as if her daughter was always making friends with solitary women), and asked which forest path she wanted to take. “This one,” and she leapt up and danced down the left path, leaving behind a smile on my face.

I went back to studying the near-perfect frangipani in my hand – a rare find in this intermittently rainy weather. The bursts of fierce sunshine burn the delicate flowers quickly. This one had just a tiny tinge of brown on one of its petals. I’m now wearing it in my hair. Throughout the day I’ll forget it’s there and wonder why people are smiling at me.
—

I’d like to learn the art of the interlude. Enjoy what is here now for its momentary qualities, expect nothing, hope for nothing, move on with curiosity to the next interlude – like that child this morning.

It’s SO hot and threatening to storm (which will hopefully lower the temperature somewhat). How I envy those of you who are having a white Christmas.

But enough complaint. Don’t ever let me tell you I’m poor. Yesterday my husband went to the markets and came back with a bounty of luscious peaches and nectarines and strawberries and cherries. Big black flavour-burst-in-your-mouth cherries. We have plenty to indulge for days on end and still have ample to give away. I spent yesterday afternoon peeling nectarines to poach in orange juice and ginger and Irish whiskey (should have been Grand Marnier, but we don’t have any). Today I’ll add a handful of mint. Yum.

My husband, son and I will have Christmas lunch with the family of a friend – closer to us than our own families. Children abound, and ‘strays’ who have nowhere else to go on Christmas Day.

Happy Christmas everybody.

We never did put the lights on the tree. I was annoyed with my husband, who claimed to know where they were hiding. However, just when I was complaining that our home was completely devoid of Christmas atmosphere, a number of angels invaded the house. If you keep very quiet, you’ll probably hear them singing … hmmm, they seem to be singing in Hebrew. Oh well.

I took photos of the angels, and I’d pass them on to John to accommodate on his website, but I don’t want to disturb John because I happen to know he’s fully occupied with the lovely Kathy. So you’ll all have to wait. It’s alright though … I’m pretty sure these angels intend to hang around till next Christmas.

Christmas Day was SO hot, and the threatened storms didn’t come. We managed to force ourselves to eat, nonetheless. King prawns, smoked salmon, a variety of roast meats, and a wide assortment of salads. Following that, a truly splendid tiramisu and plum pudding with custard and ice cream and thick cream, with the nectarines in between to ‘cleanse the palate’.

The others went in the pool afterwards, but I knew I’d sink, so I lay in the shade of the trees instead and let the children splash me.

Two days later we don’t seem to have made much of an impression on the cherries and peaches, remaining nectarines and strawberries – even though I seem to be eating them constantly. This morning for breakfast I made a delectable smoothie with peaches and strawberries and apple juice with just a touch of lemon. It makes me feel virtuous eating all this fruit instead of sweets.

The most important decision I have to make today is whether to see ‘Master and Commander’ or ‘Lord of the Rings’. Perhaps the former. The queue will be too long for LOTR. It can wait till the hulabaloo dies down.

These are the angels mentioned earlier. They’ll be ready for next Christmas.

Last Tuesday my husband Colin and I made our annual pilgrimage to the Woodford Folk Festival

http://www.woodfordfolkfestival.com/main/index.php

It was even more wonderful than usual, presenting a bewildering smorgasbord of music – too much choice for a person as indecisive as me. In previous years excessive heat and/or rain at the Woodford Festival seemed inseparable, but this year (mercifully) the heat was tolerable and rain only threatened.

The highlights for me were:

Sheva – a group of Jews and Muslims from the north of Israel – showing that peace is possible. Never before, in the 20 yrs I’ve been attending the festival, have I seen the entire audience of the Big Top on its feet dancing. Perhaps America should send musicians instead of soldiers to the Middle East.

Msr Camembert – a gloriously energetic gypsy jazz group (Australians from various ethnic backgrounds)

Bohola – American-Irish group from Chicago, who rose above the purely traditional Celtic music genre by being absolutely extraordinarily good, and injecting a touch of ‘something else’ which is hard to define.

The Plague and the Moonflower (a contemporary oratorio, complete with dancers and audio-visual – produced by the smallish NSW country town of Armidale). Performance was in the open-air amphitheatre, surrounded by trees and hills. Lovely. And powerful.

If only the world were like Woodford. Sigh …

“I’m not afraid of your Yahweh
I’m not afraid of your Allah
I’m not afraid of your Jesus
I’m afraid of what you do in the name of your God.”

(Chorus of one of the songs from the Sing Out for Peace session)

We’re city people – not sun-bronzed croc-wrestlers like Crocodile Dundee and Steve Irwin. Some of us ‘go bush’ occasionally, but not often. So it came as something of a surprise when two of our group recently bought 26 hectares in a place none of us had ever thought to visit. They did it impulsively too. “Ring and make them an offer,” Helen said. Dutifully, Hugh made a phone call. Minutes later he had bought Teviot Brook, outside Boonah.

http://www.boonah.net/tourism/home.htm

A little background

In 1989, award-winner journalist Hugh Lunn published a book called ‘Over the Top with Jim’, the story of his childhood in Annerley Junction. A number of us who went to school with Hugh attended the launch of the book, held in the old Boomerang Theatre (cinema) where we took in many a Saturday matinee all those years ago.

It was a magical evening. Most of us hadn’t met for 30 years. A group of us decided to organise a school reunion the following year (which was also magical) and we’ve been meeting regularly ever since.

I got just a one-line mention in the book, but it’s been quoted often … ‘Carmel Sherman, who knew more than the nuns’. To date, this is my only claim to fame.

Back to the story

Last weekend we all went to Teviot Brook for a picnic. We were advised to wear “broad hat, long sleeve jerkin, long pantaloons and sturdy boots as talismans against leaping muddy dogs, biting horse flies, constrictor snakes and stinging nettles.” We were further warned that “horse flies are attracted to the royal colours of blue and purple.”

Suitably attired (more or less), we sallied forth, or hence, or something.

There’s not a lot to tell. It was bloody hot and humid, but reasonably cooling breezes found us on the verandah, and the house itself is air-conditioned. We laughed a lot, enjoyed a sumptuous lunch, then walked it off by means of a tour of the property.

Let it be known that the muddy dogs were kept well under control by Helen, we didn’t see a single horse fly or snake (even of the non-constricting kind), and nobody was attacked by stinging nettles. I did brush a tick off Sam’s neck though … before it had a chance to burrow in. Ticks are amongst my most loathed creatures. I suppose they have a purpose in the overall scheme of things but I can’t think of one.

I’ll let the accompanying photos substitute for many thousands of words.

We’re still puzzled why Hugh and Helen decided to become ‘country people’ in their geezerhood, but we intend to enjoy visiting them.

(Read this before the earlier blog entry – it was inexplicably dropped off. Another of life’s mysteries I guess.)

We’re city people – not sun-bronzed croc-wrestlers like Crocodile Dundee and Steve Irwin. Some of us ‘go bush’ occasionally, but not often. So it came as something of a surprise when two of our group recently bought 26 hectares in a place none of us had ever thought to visit. They did it impulsively too. “Ring and make them an offer,” Helen said. Dutifully, Hugh made a phone call. Minutes later he had bought Teviot Brook, outside Boonah.

I’m really fussy about hair. Obsessive, some would say. When I’m in any way stressed, I compulsively play with the hair at the back of my head and find bits that are longer than those next to them and I cut them off, whereupon another piece of hair longer than all the rest magically materialises right next to the spot where I cut the last bit, if you see what I mean. The strange thing is that I actually like artfully messy hair, so you wouldn’t think having some strands longer than others would bother me. I’ve filed this away amongst ‘things about myself I don’t understand.’

(Reader beware: I have a feeling this is going to be one of my rambling pieces, full of convoluted sentences and multiple brackets.)

Luckily, I have lots of hair and it’s possible to disguise my inexpert cutting most of the time (actually, I guess I’m not too bad at this cutting stuff because lots of people admire my hair). But a couple of times a year I feel the urge to seek the aid of a ‘professional’.

Yesterday was one of those days. Optimistic as always, I was convinced that Peter, my hairdresser, would be able to weave some sort of magic and I would emerge after a couple of hours looking positively ravishing with the hairstyle I’ve dreamed of.

Why I persist in this belief is something of a puzzlement because, for the past 16 years, I’ve been having a communication problem with Peter. He always seems to understand what I want, but something goes wrong during the translation.

This time I took a picture with me.

See what I mean by ‘artfully messy’? In truth, I’d probably be unable to resist cutting off that long bit. And, on an especially stressful day, all the other messy bits as well. Then I’d end up with ‘neat’ again. I don’t like neat.

Peter was very enthusiastic about this hairstyle, and I really thought that’s what I would get, which was pretty unrealistic, now that I come to think about it, because my hair just wasn’t long enough in the first place.

You might wonder why I keep going back to Peter. I have tried other hairdressers from time to time, but they’re either not as good or they’re astronomically expensive (instead of just ‘quite expensive’ like Peter). But there are other more important reasons for my loyalty to Peter, not all of them logical.

1. He’s Welsh, and I don’t know any other Welsh people.
2. He’s charming and a scintillating conversationalist … interesting, offbeat stuff.
3. He always has great music playing … performers i didn’t even know about.
4. The salon is always a happy place
5. I get to enjoy the MARVELLOUS massage chair while having my hair washed.

Anyway, I didn’t get my dream hairstyle and I came away nearly $200 poorer (Aussie dollars) – $120 for the cut and colour, $60 for product and $10 for a taxi back to work. I didn’t have to buy the product and they didn’t even try to sell it to me – I volunteered to buy it. Temporary insanity is my only explanation.

The hairstyle is OK. Others say they like it, but people are polite aren’t they. Perhaps after I train it a little …….

I WISH I weren’t so fussy about hair.

It was easier last time. All Anne and I did was visit a travel agent, buy our tickets on the Marconi, follow the agent’s instructions re vaccinations, passports etc. and off we went. Nothing booked ahead. We alighted from the ship in Genoa, asked the way to the railway station in faltering Italian, and caught the first available train to Heidelberg.

I don’t remember having any trouble with passports.

My husband, Colin, has been hassling me for weeks to arrange for my passport. Nothing to it, I thought. Oh how wrong a person can be.

I took a day off work, dropped into my local shopping centre, and sauntered in to a photo shop that had a ‘passport photos’ sign outside. “Our camera’s broken,” an incompetent-looking young man told me. “Is there anywhere else in the centre I can get passport photos?” I asked, annoyed at such carelessness. “Big W,” he told me.

O-K … off I went to find Big W. A lady who checks your bags directed me to the photographic section, “But,” she said, “I think their camera’s broken.” She was right.

This time I was re-routed to Harvey World Travel where a blonde glamour-dolly told me that those cameras had been broken for 4 months. She obligingly took my photo. Without a word of a lie, I can tell you this was THE WORST PHOTO ever taken of me in my entire life. (Melisanda: What about that one with the towel around your head and no make up? Carmel: Shut up!)

Swallowing my pride, I took it along to the Australia Post Shop, believing I could just fill out the application, hand over the photographs, produce multiple identifying documents and that would be it. Not so.

You’d think Colin, who got a passport only a couple of months ago, would have remembered (and warned me accordingly) that you needed someone other than family, who has known you for 12 months or more to sign the back of one of the photos, and fill in a guarantor’s statement, wouldn’t you? But he didn’t.

This meant I had to wait till Monday because nobody who lives near has known me for 12 months. Nathan, the PR guy at work, agreed to act as guarantor. I produced the photograph. “That doesn’t look like you!” he said convincingly. I hugged him.

The following Saturday, I fronted up to Australia Post again. I was there when they opened at 8.30 because I had a meeting to attend at 10.00 on the other side of town, and I had to vote in the State election on the way. No margin for error here.

There were 3 people ahead of me … a family, all putting in their passport applications. There was some problem with their photos. Listening in to the conversation, I just knew my photo was going to be rejected too. I was not wrong.

Now I had two options here. I could go back to Harvey World Travel and insist they take a ‘proper’ photo (which hopefully would be more flattering than the last), or I could get Colin to take it – following the directions in the application (if I had got the application form BEFORE having the photo taken, I could have done that in the first place). Either way, I was going to have to get Nathan to sign it again … or find someone else to be guarantor and fill out a new application.

I chose the do-it-yourself path. After a few practice runs with the digital camera set on self-timer to ensure that I was going to look human, I engaged Colin in the role of photographer.

The resulting photo didn’t look much like me either … it ranks amongst the BEST (non-smiling) ever taken of me. Nathan was sensitive enough not to refrain from pointing this out when he signed the back.

Early Tuesday morning, I returned to Australia Post. I recognised the lady ahead of me as one of the group who’d had their photos rejected on Saturday. She recognised me too and gave me one of those ‘fellow-sufferer’ smiles. Good thing I didn’t go back to Harvey World Travel like she did … her second photo was rejected too.

I produced my photo … absolutely perfect. (They don’t check to see if the photo looks remotely like you, by the way.) I began displaying my documents – driver’s licence, Medicare card, birth certificate, marriage certificate to show why my name is no longer Sherman. “Oh,” she said, in genuine dismay, “this isn’t a FULL marriage certificate.”

I don’t remember clearly, but I think I screamed in public.

Apparently the church certificate (which has sufficed for all other official purposes my entire 32-year married life) is no longer acceptable. “It used to be until quite recently,” she said apologetically.

Colin stepped in at this stage because he could see I was going to make a major scene. I don’t do this very often. In most of life’s circumstances I’m fairly cool, calm and collected. I’ve even been called ‘serene’ by those who don’t know me very well.

That was all nearly a week ago, and the horror of it has faded a little. Anyway, to cut a long story a little shorter, I now have the required full certificate and am about to embark on my third attempt.

Wish me luck.

Footnote: For those of you who may meet me when/if I make it to the US, remember this is only a general likeness.