Mr Justice came home from school the other day very excited: his teacher has hair that is dead!
“Really?” I said.
You bet! Apparently there is a bit which is yellow and that’s where the hair “was died”. But the rest of the hair is not dead, otherwise it would all be yellow. Obviously.
I started to explain to him that by “dying” her hair she actually meant “dyeing” and how that little “e” made all the difference, but he stood by his version of events. A bit of her hair was dead. FULL STOP. Sheesh, mum. But hey, who could blame him? Death is a far more fascinating topic to a little boy than vanity, after all.
I remember when I had all my hair cut off for the first time since he was born and he said to me: “You look lovely, mummy!” And then he added: “Just like a poodle.”
And he was right. It was a stupid haircut. A stupid poodle haircut. You see, I have what is known in the business as “totally stupid schizoid hair” where the front grows perfectly straight but the back is curly. After years of having my mother murmuring menacingly under her breath about my lack of a hairbrush, it turns out it’s Not My Fault. It just grows that way. But it does get some hairdressers all over-excited and start releasing the curl-factor in the way one might “release the hounds” – although, it’s more like “release the spoilt over-pampered primped-up puff-balls” in my case.
My facebook friends probably still remember that particular Poodle Head episode in my life because, for a while there, my status updates were AAtH (All About the Haircut). If I remember correctly (unlikely), they roughly went like this:
[NDM] is getting her hair cut at a salon that was mentioned in Vogue on Tuesday.
[NDM] is having her hair cut tomorrow. At a salon mentioned in Vogue. Did she mention that it was mentioned in Vogue?
[NDM] is not sure she likes her new haircut. And the hairdresser didn’t seem to know or care that the salon was mentioned in Vogue.
[NDM] is having a bad hair day. Stick *that* in Vogue.
My husband was very nice about the haircut at the time, because he’s a nice man. It wasn’t until I finally got my hair cut properly that he said – and here I quote: “I didn’t realise how much your old haircut was ruining my life until I saw your new one.” See? Nice nice man.
I have the fabulous Bec to thank for my recent run of good luck with haircuts. As mentioned in a previous post (see “Mumsy’s the Word“), she comes to my house to cut my hair, which apparently sounds really cool to my busy DINK and SINK friends. However the reality is that I invariably end up holding a wriggling child or two while she tries to work around me (and by “me”, I mean “us”). I’m sure the experience will come in handy for her should she ever have to cut Hydra’s hair.
When it comes to the question of how to cut my hair, I give Bec one instruction and one instruction only: if I leave the house without once looking at a mirror or even muttering the word “hairbrush” (let alone finding one and using it), I want to be free to walk the streets without frightening small children or driving elderly ladies to write angry letters to the council about declining standards in the community.
It’s a tall order, but somehow she makes it happen and even when I wear my trousers inside out on the school run, it doesn’t matter because I’ve got great hair, especially when I get around to washing it. Thank you, Saint Bec! Thank you for keeping the poodles at bay, giving my children one less reason to be embarrassed about me and for making the streets of my neighbourhood just that little bit safer to walk in. All of us here at NDM HQ salute you!