After the deliciously perfect excuse of ‘It’s Christmas’ is now out of the way, one can no longer utter the immortal phrase ‘i’ll start after Christmas’ until the next November comes trundling round.
‘I’m not offended by the dumb-blonde jokes because I know that I’m not dumb. I also know that I am not blonde’ Dolly Parton
Let’s just say, in my life I’ve had some giant corkers in the bad hairstyles stakes.
There was the time when I asked The Brother (older than me by 19 months and should have known better) to cut my fringe. We were about 6 years old and it wasn’t either of our finest hours. Clumps of my Barnet fell in dramatic little piles all around us! The Brother got a whack on the leg and a severe talking to, and I got an extremely short boy cut that I did not enjoy having to grow out of! Moral of the story? Dont hand a small boy a massive pair of scissors saying the six-year-old version of ‘short back and sides please’ and expect a good result!
Crimping. Boy oh boy did I crimp my hair! The key to crimping is to have a totally inappropriate hairstyle to start with, and by this stage I was sporting a cracking little twenties style short bob. Add to that the joy that is the crimping irons (burns ear lobes, sides of heads, eyebrows….actually, it’s pretty indiscriminating as to which unfortunate part of your head it used to burn, including the hair!). For those of you who are boys or just weren’t born in the right decade to have claimed the Crimping Queen title, it’s very hard to explain the sheer joy when you’ve crimped every last strand into a rigid waved mass of totally unnatural looking hair:
There was strutting up and down the room, turning at the end and glaring model-like into a mirror, noting the alien phenomenon of said hair not moving an inch even with the massive flip of the head that extended all the way to the shoulders. Oh how cool we were, with our random burnt patches and channelling Worzel Gummidge!
Then there was my exam year at school when layering was making it big in England.
Whether the hairdresser girl was practicing her brand new skills on me or whether she was always that rubbish we’ll sadly never know, but what I came out of the salon with that day was a shaggy brownish head of hair very reminiscent of a mop. A beautifully conditioned and subtly highlighted mop, but a mop nonetheless!
From then on my new nickname was ‘Friendly Lion’, and boy did I live up to that name. I soon came to work out that what the useless hairdresser had achieved was something close to a miracle of taming hairdo ability in comparison to how badly I myself could control this mane.
I’m sure I fully alarmed people when walking down the streets with this giant faux pas of a hair do. I now understand all these years on that the hairdresser was trying to achieve the most requested hairstyle of all time ‘The Rachel’. My ‘Rachel’ was more of a Raquel, or the hairstyle version of a cankle!
Then I was blonde for ten years. How I loved my blonde locks! Granted, over 67% of the time I looked somewhat chav-tastic due to the disastrous and ever-present root growth. I have never bought into the feeling that roots are cool and trendy. To me they simply scream ‘Hey look at the top of my head I have a badger attached to it!’ But being blonde was fun, and I’d never felt so confident and snazzy!
Then came the eventual point when my hair simply took its life into its own hands as if to say ‘If you don’t stop dyeing the pants off me I’m going to retaliate the only way I know how: Demon Split Ends’
My split ends were magnificent. My split ends had their own split ends. And those had some baby split ends of their own until I had whole family trees going on around my ears making it really rather foresty.
So here I am in the present day with a colour that can only be described as Boredom in Brown. That’s the Dulux name for it obviously. The hair dye packet will be something along the lines of ‘Chocolate on a summer Tuesday morning’ or ‘Molten Mocha Midnight’ or something equally as daft!
I’ll be doing something with it very soon…Answers on a postcard as to what please….Maybe ginger curlz? (See what I did there with the z? I’m down with the kids! Actually I hate all that rubbish but more on that another day)
Maybe Jet black? Mohican? We shall see! All I hope for in life right now though, is to never see a comeback of the Clumps, The Crimping or the Cankle! This would be a very sad day for mankind indeed.
Fatty Blob Head