It had to be done! There was no two ways about it. No more procrastinating, no more dithering, no more asking 'What would you do?' It HAD to come of and the sooner the better.
I'm talking about my hair of course. My long, long, (down to my bum long) thick, heavy hair. I mean really, at fifty plus, four feet eleven inches tall (tall?) and well, erm a very round apple shape, I was begining to resemble Cousin It of Addams Family fame. Worse, Cousin It having a bad hair day.
I couldn't do a darn thing with it. Up-does which look like an after thought are not my forte. You know the things I mean; those swirly, tendrily, casually-twisted-into-a-knot styles which some women can do without the aid of a mirror and look all ready for the Red Carpet and gangs of eager photographers.
No, my 'signature' look was a low pony tail, or, with the aid of a friendly niece, a long plait with wispy bits sticking out because of the layers I'd had cut in last year in a vain attempt at tidiness. The only other styles open to me which I could do myself were two long plaits like a German fräulein from the thirties, or two pig tails….if I wanted to look like Baby Jane, with my cat Dave providing the rats.
And hair, especially long hair gets everywhere. In the sink when I'm washing up, coating the walls of the shower cubicle, blocking the drains and in Dave's food. But he might like that…it's a nice bit of fibre for him when the rats prove elusive. And I was forever hoovering up balls of hair which had mysteriously appeared adhered to the carpet and which, in turn clogged up the nozzle.
No, I was pretty fed up, so, after weeks (nay, months) of dithering, I finally decided it had to go.
Like many women I do not like visiting a salon. I feel so self conscious and awkward surrounded by all those trendy young things with their designer hair, alarming make-up and multiple piercings. And the mirrors make me look older and more saggy and baggy than ever. Not a great boost to my already low self esteem.
And even with the bit of slap I apply in an attempt to look a bit decent, I still end up looking awful. Mascara begins to run after the hair washing ritual and with the ghastly black plastic cape around my (by now sagging) shoulders, I want to die with horror. It's even worse if you're having 'foils' to highlight your hair. You end up resembling a packed lunch.
And you can't hold a conversation. With all the blow dryers wooshing and hissing, the constant chatter and the water dribbling into your ears, it's impossible to get beyond the 'Are-you-going-away-this-year-doing-anything-nice-this-week-end' stage; not to mention the overpowering stench of chemicals, so I opted for a mobile hairdresser. And it was heavenly.
I washed my hair before the hairdresser arrived so no straining backwards over a basin with my feet dangling a foot off the ground. And we could TALK in comfort and without shouting at each other or nodding and grinning inanely. And she did a fantastic job. My hair was put into a last pony tail and cut off ready to send to a children's charity which provides wigs to young people who've lost their hair through illness or after having chemotherapy.
My hair is now in a short bob. I look and feel so much better. A little bit like the sheep who hid away and avoided being shorn for six years. And I look younger and much less baggy and saggy. My cut off pony tail was plaited and sent off to Little Princesses Charity and I certainly felt better knowing my hair may be put to good use.
So…happy days and happy new hair-do. Now I'll save a fortune in shampoo and conditioner and the vacuum cleaner may last a few more years. It's all good, folks.