Hubby is King of the see-through hairdo, and Wash and Go takes on a whole new meaning as his hair is dry before the rest of him after a shower.
Me on the other hand, or should I say head, is another story altogether.
At school, my hair was usually kept short, cut into the nape of the neck, and done by a lady up the road, who incidentally did every child’s hair on the estate, so we all looked like spent matches when we came out of her kitchen.
I had a fringe, a double crown, and a natural wave that would have made Sandbanks jealous. In short (pun intended) it was thick, unruly and unpredictable.
I remember growing it a couple of times, but soon got fed up when my fringe was too long for my brow and too short to be tied back unless I stuck loads of bobby pins in it (which looked as though I had a row of crocodile teeth erupting out of my head).
In my adult life, I tried a lot of styles, some by choice and some by necessity.
I decided to have hi-lights, but they didn’t take, so my hair was bleached first and then the colour added. Nobody noticed.
My first perm went disastrously wrong as they forgot about me and I was overcooked before being neutralised. My hair looked great when I left the salon, but as soon as I washed it myself, it stuck together like some kind of carpet weaved matting.
One of my foster girls was a hairdresser and often experimented on me. I didn’t mind though the buzz cut was a show stopper. I think the partner’s words were
‘What the f**k have you done to your hair?????’
I don’t think he liked it.
Before we were married, I had no qualms about Hubby seeing me with my head in rollers. He didn’t like it when I’d stink of Twink as he put it, and when I grew my hair long in the early days, he used to tie it to my glasses.
He actually had quite a bit of hair then himself, it was kind of brown and if it got too long would curl up on his collar. I may even have been able to run my fingers through it………..
I found a good hairdresser who used to come to the house and did so for over five years. Her prices were reasonable, she was reliable, and she’d cut Hubby’s hair too for £3.
When she said she was moving to Italy, she suggested we invest in a set of clippers for Hubby which would pay for themselves in about six ‘cuts’.
The first time he used them he was a bit nervous, but it was so easy. Until I got hold of them and tried to help.
He’d taken off the Number 2 cutting tool, and wanted me to trim the back of his neck.
I went up his head, and he looked like he was sporting a reverse mohican.
He was far from pleased and wore a baseball cap everywhere except at home for about two weeks. Now if I’m asked to trim, we have a chant ‘ Don’t go up, don’t go up’.
Apart from treating my Mum last June, I haven’t been to a professional hairdresser for years. I cut it myself (but not with Hubby’s clippers!) every couple of months or so and have no worries about the Rogue streaks that are getting wider. At 59, I have been lucky to keep my natural colour this long, unlike my sister who went white overnight following the birth of her second daughter over thirty years ago. Mum is a striking silver.
I’ve always been fascinated by women with long hair (Jane Seymour comes immediately to mind) and I’ve been growing mine now since 2004 with the hope of being able to sit on it.
My Mum asked me what I was going to do after that. I said I’d probably have it cut.
I was talking to a fellow boater the other day and her granddaughter has just had her long hair cut for charity. The hairdresser plaited it first and then cut off the plait as apparently her hair is going to be used in the making of a wig for a cancer patient.
If I reach my goal and then decide to have it cut, I think this would be a worthy cause.