Monday, 11 June 2007

Four: Pink hair

Now I hear you saying,' this is getting ridiculous, how old are you? 16 or nearly 60?'

Tee hee, if you read my last entry you will have seen the fabulous (Sharon Osbourne's word, not mine) glasses.

So, if you were me, what's the next thing you would do? Go and get some pink hair? No, no, it didn't work like that at all.

You see, I started making my list of '60 things to do before you're 60' a few months ago, and one of the items was * colour my hair * (again) because I had done this before.

When you're born with mousy, watery brown hair which is fine yet frizzy, sometimes wavy-yes, I know - what a great combination that would be these days, you have no option but to try to improve that image you see looking at you every morning.

So, I did. Often. Colour my hair. Mostly auburn or various shades of auburn. It was never too red or too auburn, just a burnished coppery, auburny red. Know what I mean?

I have always had a very short style, mostly because of lack of quantity and quality, but thankfully I could get away with it, having ears that were quite neatly placed beside my not too large face. Oops, that's without the high forehead I was blessed with. A forehead that seems to stretch upwards forever, and nowadays is patterned with 'pleats'.

About a week after I got the new glasses and began strutting around like a peacock, I went off to the hairdresser for my usual monthly cut (which usually ends up resembling newly mowed lawn). The hairdresser immediately remarked 'Oh, I do like your new glasses, why don't you make your hair pink to match them?' They certainly know how to drum up business.

Up to that moment I was quite proud of my greying (salt and pepper) hair and wore it as a badge of pride, much like I did the pleats. Suddenly it dawned on me, 'this is it, the time, one of the items on my list, why not?' I decided to only have pink highlights, but insisted on exactly the same colour as my frames.
'No problem' he said and within the hour I was transformed. It looked as if I had fallen on my head into some pink paint, and then tried to rub it all off. Yikes.

By the time I got home I was in a real state, panicky and embarrassed to show my husband. There had been many times in the past when I arrived home after a cut to be greeted with 'Oh no, I'm living with a boy again'. This time he just stood there with his mouth half open and a wry mocking expression on his face. But as soon as he saw my stricken face he immediately altered his mien and took on a sweet, accepting nonchalance of 'this is nice'. I didn't take it any further as you can imagine.

That wasn't the end of it. I had to go to work the following week after half term and face all my friends as well as the pupils, the harshest critics of all. I couldn't sleep that night, very silly but true. It was worse than my finals at University.

The next day I slunk into school only to be met by 'Ooooh' and 'Aaahs' and 'Wows' and 'Goshes' (mostly 'gosh you're brave'). But the turning point for me came when one of the older girls in year 6 did a double take in the corridor and said 'That's sooooo cool!!'

Well I was chuffed. I had never been called 'cool' even when I was of the right age to be considered cool. I felt the admiration and even respect that day and it was fabulous (thanks Sharon).

As you have probably guessed by now, I am not your regular run of the mill 59 year old, but now I felt I was truly on the road to achieving some of the 60 things that I had planned to do and soon. What will I do next?