Apres-Ski for the Win!

March arrived with that smug, shoulder-shimmy vibe London gets when it finally stops acting like the Arctic. After the Beast from the East nearly ripped the top layer of my face clean off, anything above zero degrees felt like a personal triumph. The city thawed, my mood thawed, and suddenly everything felt a little more possible.

But underneath all that? March had big identity reboot energy. Something shifted after New Zealand — this low hum under my skin whispering, "Babe… fix your life." And in true chaotic Kiwi tradition, I expressed that epiphany in the most mature, grounded, sensible way possible:

I dyed my hair.

No warning. No discussion. No patch test. I stormed into a salon in Soho like a woman possessed, dropped into the chair, flung my scarf dramatically, and declared:

“Take me back to the dark side. I want to feel something again.”

The toner swirled down the drain along with every scrap of blonde-era existential crisis. When I stepped out onto Greek Street — peppermint tea in hand (I did NOT order it), hair glossy and dark and moody — I felt like Gemma 2.0. Someone who would fight a stranger for the last almond croissant. Someone who had Opinions and Boundaries and Maybe Even A Life Plan.

Brunette Gemma? She was back, baby.

Skiing, Chaos, & The Religion of Bad Decisions

Then came Andorra.

Look — I should NEVER be near skis. I am not built for alpine danger. My ancestry is beaches, jandals, and supermarkets that close at 5pm.

My one childhood ski trip ended with Dad accidentally launching himself into what looked very much like an open grave in the snow. Mum called it “character building.” I called it trauma.

Fast forward: my ex once dragged me to Bansko where I fell every three minutes and bruised my entire arse. So naturally, when a group trip to Andorra popped up, I said yes with the confidence of a woman who consistently forgets her own limitations.

Flying into Toulouse at night felt glamorous — stars sparkling, snow falling, me imagining myself as a chic, mysterious ski girl with perfect eyeliner.

Reality:

• Me waddling across ice like a newborn penguin.

• Me losing control and taking out a small French child like a rogue shopping trolley.

• Me whispering “this is how I die” during a white-out.

  
  

But then the clouds cleared, Kygo blasted from somewhere above us, bubbles materialised in my hand, and for one glorious afternoon I was basically the Andorran Carrie Bradshaw — if Carrie wore five layers, smelled faintly of deep heat, and had bruises forming in places that shouldn’t bruise.

Oscar, bless him, spent the entire holiday in a permanent snowplough. At one point it took him half an hour to get down a blue run. When I asked if he was coping, he wheezed:

“Yeah, fuck off, Gemma.”

Iconic.

London: Brunch, Blow-Dries & Questionable Nightlife Choices

Coming back to London felt like stepping into a hairdryer — warm, chaotic, a bit dehydrating, but comforting.

And immediately, I resumed my primary profession: brunching.

Brunch in London isn’t a meal. It’s a lifestyle. A competitive sport. A runway show with poached eggs.

Back home it’s just “eggs and a yarn.” Here it’s:

• planned outfits

• contour so sharp it could deflect negativity

• photographing pancakes like they’re endangered wildlife

• someone always, ALWAYS lying on the floor to get the overhead shot

  
  

It’s nonsense. I adore it.

Nights out? Equally chaotic. One Friday in Shoreditch I wore shoes that were both impractical and painful, which feels like an accomplishment. Another night in Soho spiralled from "just one" to tequila, glitter, and me crying into a kebab while trying to explain my hopes and dreams to the guy who made it.

Beauty, But Make It Kiwi Girl Trying Her Absolute Best

My skincare routine has turned religious. London winter aged me ten years in six weeks, so I’m basically basting myself in serums now.

Flatmate bonding nights are sheet masks, candles, gossip, and wine — solving absolutely none of our problems but making us feel gorgeous while ignoring them.

Makeup? Armour. Gel nails? Essential. Perfume? Mandatory.

But honestly — the brunette reveal was the spiritual reset. Like the moment in a movie where the heroine looks into the mirror and finally recognises herself.

Small Joys, Big Vibe Shift

London softened this month. Daffodils everywhere. Lighter evenings. That faint, hopeful smell of spring.

My Tooting Bec flat still looks like Zara Home and a student digs had a baby — mismatched glasses, scented candles, cushions that don’t match anything — but it feels like home.

Back in Auckland, home is feijoas on the bench and sandy jandals by the door. Here, home is Prosecco glasses, Diptyque candles, and a neighbour who does aggressively loud 6am yoga.

Both versions are me. Both feel right.

March’s Lesson

March taught me that life doesn’t unfold neatly — it unravels gloriously. It’s bruises from failed ski attempts, overpriced brunches, bad shoes, great blow-dries, sheet-mask therapy, and that electric moment in a salon chair where you think:

“Oh. There she is.”

Chaotic, soft, brunette, trying, failing, learning, laughing, living.

Very much alive.

Gem x