Dead extensions

Considering that hair is dead I really do not know whether it’s worth it.

Hair frames you - ask Boris Johnson. I think he wears it well and, contrary to many gripes about it, in the style stakes its boyishness is balanced by his nose of character.

Boris, my dear poor man, at least one of YOUR gender knows how it feels to be constantly assessed on your appearance. Nothing more illuminating than the recent spate of articles, nay make that “photo shoots” of all those “babes” recruited into governments round Europe. I have to check on the dress sense of men in Angela Merckel’s cabinet. Never mind she heads Germany, the cleavage she recently showed was commended. Talk about getting exposure.

Where was I? Hair. It tells you all you need to know about a person helping you to decide whether to deepen contact. Look at someone’s hair (or lack of) and it’ll give away the state of their lodgings, the car they drive, their grip on life and how they cope with my beloved vicissitudes.

If you want further details please send photo, even if I know already what you look like, to request an in-depth analysis; since I am currently broke, only friends will get discounts. 

We need to love ourselves first before we can extend the feeling to others; so I will tell you that my hair is unruly (because curly) and that I am the only woman I know who leaves well alone – I wash it but I don’t fiddle with it or try to coax into something it isn’t. Neither do I wear hats – unless forced upon me by the Rules of Henley – the regatta, Ascot – the horse, or attending British weddings and funerals.

One of the most shameful moments of my life in the hairy hat stakes was on occasion of the funeral of my mother-in-law. She died fairly suddenly, so one didn’t have a chance to prepare well in advance. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that a hat had to be found in order for me to attend her send-off. There I was, in the middle of York (yes, Yorkshire), trying to find the dreaded garment at the last minute, hissing at her grieving son that “just because your mother died doesn’t mean I have to look hideous”. It’s 25 years ago, yet few remarks I have made in my life bring a deeper blush to my face.

Five minutes before closing time I did find a cute little French number complete with black lacy veil. My mother-in-law, and they don’t come better than she did, would have approved.

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