The Penrhyn Bay Hair Massacre
My hair is looking particularly ridiculous at the moment. Actually I just typed ‘monument,’ instead of moment, and though my hair is certainly having a moment (an unmentionable one) and as if my computer colludes with me, my latest hack job (not computer hacking) hair hacking, has been a monumental or frankly just mental, disaster. The other night, my beautiful, blonde (the perfect shade) pastor’s wife came round with another friend whose gifts as a raconteur render her sparkling silver hair a fitting halo. My friend coloured the upper parts of my hair a fetching blonde, which I initially liked, but on waking the next day, I found I looked like a BBC blonde. The problem was, as fine a job as my friend had done, my hair was just too long to be that blonde, and the shade I had needed to be shorter. As there were no beautiful blonde pastors wives, stroke hairdressers in the house, I had to use the available options, which were: three children under six, a husband stroke doctor of engineering and a novel writer stroke ‘I can cut my own hair given enough incentive’ type person. The incentive was that though I am grateful for the BBC, particularly Front Row, BBC Radio 4 and The World Service, I prefer my female broadcasters to look like Stewarts. Yes, the tartan surnames types: A. Moira Stewart or B. Fiona the Bruce. I shan’t ask the doctor of engineering whom he prefers, lest he becomes more shorn than anticipated – yes, he’s next on the list for the chop; no, not divorce, one does not cull saints, for a haircut. The children don’t count because they are only just learning to. Actually, the five year old is splendid at maths – she must have got that from the doctor of engineering, it wasn’t engineered from me, unless it was in the miraculous sense. Besides, she thinks I currently look ‘brilliant.’ Perhaps she means so brilliant in the shocking sense that her retinas have let her down. Bless her. She is very clever though.
Anyhow, and you will see how appropriate that word ‘anyhow’ is. The morning after the night before, I did not like my long hair blonde, the shade I had required more of ‘a look’ and not the one of horror that stared back at me from the mirror. Thus it had to come off posthaste. I rummaged in a drawer and found some (possibly blunt) scissors and pulling my hair into a pony tail (sorry to insult you, ponies), I hacked a good three inches off and chucked them into the trough – not really, just staying with the pony theme. I chucked the hair ends in the bath (empty) where they landed on the head of a yellow rubber ducky, rendering the little chap freakish – better he than me. He doesn’t have to venture into the world outside the tub. I then gave myself some layers, or ‘framed’ my face with some feathery action (sorry birdies). I even gave myself a fringe (sorry theatres – okay, a joke too far). The problem was the back. How to hack the back? I called in the reluctant engineer (what else was I to do? Call in the recalcitrant toddlers, or the too eager five-year-old, who was that thrilled by the spectacle, she would have been only too pleased to add to the drama-rama. I reminded initially not keen engineer (husband) that he was a doctor of engineering, and that given the former, he could doubtless wield the latter (the scissors) and follow the line, or the curve, or whatever. Like Frankenstein being brought to life, he was initially reluctant, but soon became over enthused and began wielding those scissors like a maniacal doctor from the Penrhyn Bay Hair Massacre. His response to my suggestion that he cut off an inch was to cut off three miles – okay an exaggeration – three or four inches; four at least. “I’m just trying to get rid of the mullet,” he said, with the confident air of a fishmonger selling five-day-old red mullet at whiffy prices. I reminded him that hair springs upwards, but he paid no heed.
The result is that if I am feeling buoyant, unlike the reality of my hair, at least after I have made the short walk through the elements to the car, I now look like a Channel 5 Blonde; which is not too bad; or, if I am being realistic, an eighties suburban housewife. The long and the short of it is that the next day, the beautiful blonde pastor’s wife agreed with me that it needed to be shorter, but not that I (and the engineer) should have been in charge of the hack job. Another friend said I looked ‘punk rock’ which of course I like (punk rockers die hard). In fact I was so thrilled I almost booked a Holiday in Cambodia: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Rm-Fu8rBms. Had I not been in church, I would have pogoed. Actually, pogoing is perfectly acceptable in our church, which is why I go there. I initially speculated (I was in Phil Spector mode/delusional) that I looked like the blonde replicant in Blade Runner; you get the gist. Only, though my legs are long, I may not be quite that athletic anymore. But therein lies another blog. Kajagoogoo from me for now.