Hair

Thinking about my eventual long white pigtail got me in a hair frame of mind. The previously referred to wild barnet is just that. Long; when wet it is below the waist, when dry it waves about between my shoulder blades like a remonstrating ferret on a windy day. It won't stay behind my ears and it won't stay tidy. I doubt if it has it ever been tidy. Twenty years ago it was deeper brown, glossier, fuller and curlier. I was Shirley Temple on speed. Or if you are feeling unkind, Bonnie Langford on prozac. Now it is my thatch, with a fabulously Cruella De Vil silver streak on the left. I thought I'd hate it but actually, I'm rather fond of it and wonder when the finger-thick streak will extend to the rest of the still dark ringleted mess. In my twenties it was my mane, my pride and joy, my mark of femininity (important for someone who eschews make-up and only recently owned perfume and high heels), but now it is probably more appropriately characterised as middle-aged hair. The hairdressers are itching to cut it off to some respectable length - but I refuse to look like somebody's mother from a previous generation. But perhaps I'll give the pigtail a blue rinse. When I'm eighty.