Hairy Tales

David Nobbs wrote of one of his characters in 'A Bit of A Do': "She dyed her hair to sparkle, not deceive".  I thought that was a wonderful description, and though I share its sentiments in principle I still have to go to the hairdresser's every three weeks to get my roots done.  Because if you're going to be blonde, you have to look after it properly and give it the commitment and attention it deserves.  Unless you're Debbie Harry, of course - but I am palpably not her, so it was off I went to the temple of groom.

There was a young boy in the salon, newly employed and working as a trainee, and it was to him that the arduous yet simultaneously boring task of washing off my colour fell.  To be polite, I asked him the same question he must get asked by every well-meaning hair washee on a Friday afternoon: "so what are you doing at the weekend, then?" (WHY do we insist on asking these vapid questions, and why do we expect a serious answer?  You don't actually care about the answer; they know you don't care and so the question is usually answered with a resigned shrug of the shoulders and a vague stare into the middle-distance).

Anyway, he answered that he was going to spend Saturday celebrating his girlfriend's sixteenth birthday, which made me feel as though I'd, at that precise moment, morphed into a deeply wrinkled one hundred year-old.  "Oh, I'm old enough to be your girlfriend's mother!"  I laughed; and he laughed too, slightly awkwardly, probably because he didn't know what was expected of him now - compliment me and say I don't look it?  Or say something like "yes, actually you do look quite similar to her mother, but then you see, to me all old women look the same" But he did neither; just finished rubbing my scalp (vigorously, as the men seem to do) and deposited me safely in my chair for the intricate styling that was to follow, so all was good in the end.

Except that I felt strangely vulnerable and exposed, having a man wash my hair for me, and a man who was young enough to be my son to boot.  Because it's a bit intimate when you think about it, isn't it?  Even my husband has never washed my hair for me, plus there's the added consideration that I'm a bit more exposed with hair that's just been washed, because my crowning glory; the hair that somehow makes my face look a bit more bearable, has temporarily disappeared.  This is what I was thinking about as I stared up at the pretty Christmas decorations adorning the ceiling fan having shampoo liberally applied, before dismissing it all as being a bit, well - over analytical.  So I just asked for another cup of coffee and concentrated on planning the rest of my Christmas shopping in my head, just like everybody else.