It was around the third day at Glastonbury that I finally put my finger on it. I had been trying to figure out why, despite being cataclysmically hungover, sleep-deprived and caked in 72 hours worth of dried sweat, I was feeling strangely cheerful.
“Shall we get a photo?”, one of my friends suggested. As I scrolled through the pictures afterwards, I realised that, at going on for 5pm, it was the first time I had seen what I looked like all day. Because none of the toilets – and I’m using that word loosely – had mirrors in them, and I didn’t even attempt the two-hour queue for the shower, save for a few selfies, Glastonbury was the longest I’ve ever gone in my adult life without seeing my own reflection. After meticulously planning elaborate outfits, hair and makeup for the five-day festival – and vastly overpacking – I had ended up rolling out of my tent each morning, chucking on whatever was at the top of my rucksack, throwing my hair up and getting on with the day.
