Zoë Scholtz

When you manage to convince your photographer to take a selfie with you Looking for my look Do you have any idea what the appropriate attire for an 'author' photo shoot would be? No, neither did I, which is why, on the morning of my session I was rushing around like a headless chicken, searching for my best author outfit.   ' Why didn't you do this last night? I asked myself, as I rummaged through the contents of my closet. I was hunting for my favourite jeans, which had pulled a very unwelcome disappearing stunt on me.  I hated packing at the best of times, probably as a result of living as a nomad due to traveling between home and boarding school and then later on, home and varsity res. I never could decide what to take along, and usually included way more than necessary - because, well, you know... you never know what you might  need. The chaos that was our bedroom looked alarmingly similar to when I was getting ready to go away on extended vacati

Meeting my hairstylist match  Six years ago I had sat in the exact same hair salon, although this time my reasons for being there were (thankfully) much different. In 2015 I'd been having a serious meltdown.  'Why?' You may ask.  Well, some three months after being discharged from hospital, my long blonde hair (at the time reaching well below my shoulder blades) had had enough of all the gunk that had been pumped into my body to try and save my life and so it rebelled and started to fall out - b adly! According to my mom, I was bald for rather a long time as a small child. When my hair eventually started to grow, mom kept on cutting it to encourage my strands to proliferate. As a combined outcome from mom's brave (but wise) intervention and probably also genetics, I wound up with a lot of hair as an adult. To be losing most of it was upsetting to say the least, and I came to dread brushing it, since each time I'd transfer more and more strands from my head to the ha

I grudgingly hauled myself out of bed. At the best of times I could never be described as a 'morning person'. I rubbed my eyes, and tried to force myself to wake up. How some people managed to hop out of bed full of energy and ready for the day was beyond my comprehension. I. Need. Coffee. It was September, allegedly spring had arrived, but the weather had turned cold and icy.  There was an unpleasant chill in the air, and so I pulled on my gown and pushed my feet into my worn grey slippers. I padded downstairs, my slippers echoing their customary ‘sloof-sloof-sloof’, alerting His Highness the Cat that there was life in the house. Wasting no time, he took up his usual position at the glass door that lead to the garden. ‘You can wait’, I informed him, ignoring his silent demand to open the door. Instead, I made a beeline for the coffee machine. Our current brewing device was a rather intimidating silver monster. It took up most of the space on the white-grey gran