I send Jo a very harrassed text message. I’m not sure if it’s even possible for a text message to be harrassed, but if it is, then this one certainly merits that description.
Hair has reached emergency horror stage. Urgently need help. Please advise.
I return to staring gloomily into the mirror.
My problem is that I get bored too quickly. There was absolutely nothing wrong with my funky spikey haircut (ignoring Max’s opinion that it looked like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards and then put hair gel on the resulting mess). It made me look dangerous, rebellious, super-confident and even a little bit crazy. It also took approximately 23 seconds to style. All good. However, a year on, and I feel that I need a change. When I mentioned this to Jo several weeks ago, she said “Just let it grow for a while and we’ll see what we can do before you leave the country”.
By last week, The Sister was visibly flinching every time she saw The Hair. The Sister cannot leave the house without applying full make-up, straightening her hair to ruler-like standards, and ensuring that she is impeccably dressed. This is probably why she is the one who gets asked out on dates, and I am the one who sits at home watching Ally McBeal and arguing with the cat. Anyway, The Sister has been finding The Hair difficult to cope with. After several remarks about how I “really must do something” with it, and several frustrated attempts to tuck bits behind my ears, she arrived home from the town with a hair band and child’s clips.
“Sit still!” she ordered, taking charge of the situation with grim determination.
Now I still have Mad Hair, but it is heavily decorated Mad Hair. And the other day someone thought I was 16. The whole thing is just woeful. I wake up in the morning and am momentarily frightened when I catch sight of The Hair in the mirror. It sticks out at all angles in a genuinely terrifying manner. I realise that it always stuck out at all angles when it was spiked, but now the ‘spikes’ are the length of my index finger, and that’s not so good.
And so I have sent out a cry for help. Jo phones me immediately. “Right,” she says in a comfortingly businesslike way, “there is no need to panic. How bad is it?”
“It’s bad, Jo!” I wail hopelessly. “And not only that, it’s mad, too!”
“OK,” says Jo, thinking fast. “Can you make it through the weekend?”
I peer out from behind my nose-length fringe, and observe The Hair in the mirror once more. “I think so,” I say resignedly, since this is clearly what she wants me to say.
“Tuesday morning, 10.30,” she concludes, satisfied. “Come round, I’ll look at it, we’ll talk it through. It’ll be OK. I promise.”
She does not know. She has not seen The Hair.