Yesterday I cut my fringe. This was a first time thing. I have achieved my advanced age never having felt the need to take to my own locks with sharp utensils. Others, better qualified (indeed qualified for I am not) coiff me on a regular and pleasurable basis. I’ve always considered it a treat. I now know it to be a necessity.
I pray that taking to my crowning glory with scissors bought to trim my cockapoo’s eyelashes (another story entirely) was a last time thing. But in this time of Covid, needs must and I did. In the process I made a couple of schoolgirl errors. Followers, I did not do a very good job.
Actually I’ve just been overgenerous. It’s a habit and in this Corona induced solipsistic state I find myself (I’m sure I’m not alone) I must find the willpower to cease and desist at being kind and generous to Yours Truly simply because I’ve managed to get through another day, week, month and it’s now wine time. Wine, I hasten to add is NOT being kind. It is, like hairdressers, a necessity. One is out of bounds. The other fills the thirsty void.
But back to my hair. The fringe alone demonstrates, with devastating ease and sublime efficacy at least four results best avoided when attempting to allow oneself to be able to see without having to part a waterfall of darkening roots.
My mother used to have a weekly blow-dry. We fondly referred to it as a helicopter haircut so heavy in hand was the artiste with the hairspray, Mum could, Regan-Like, spin her hair without her head moving. She was not alone. Although I like hairspray I do not heavy hand it. Now however I would love a helicopter haircut. Or any haircut done by someone else. Someone with qualifications.
Mr Carmichael, after seeing my good work on Lyle, the cockapoo with the eyelashes, suggested I give him a much needed trim with the boy’s clippers. What could go wrong? Of course my husband was focusing on the equipment and the fact they were designed for dogs. They’re the only ones we have in Casa Carmichael which answered one question leaving the begging question unanswered – my aptitude and talent, or lack thereof. Now that the love o’ my life thinks I resemble a demented three year old with bad wrinkles (and an attitude) he’s opted for a silver-locked Tarzan effect from which he cannot be budged. I don’t blame him. He’s made the right choice.
Who knew that:
1) hairdressers cut your fringe at the end of the haircut when your hair is dry? Well, I did but I must have forgotten.
2) hairdressers take a little off at a time with a feathering motion and section the fringe from the surrounding hair? Me again but it slipped my mind.
3) hairdressers don’t curl a wet and what might prove to be very short fringe because that will make it look worse (if that were possible)? I didn’t know this having never had a fringe cut from Hell at the hairdressers.
My god my fringe looks terrible. And what about the rest of my hair?
I have never been ably to blow-dry my hair. It’s just a fact. I’m shit at it. Which is why I don’t do it. But now I must. I wash my hair as infrequently as possible and have moved, with alacrity, through the stages of mourning for my once coiffed bonce. I would be lying to say I don’t care but in some ways I actually don’t care. That much. I’m no longer riding pillion in a convertible Bentley, nor dining in Pall Mall. Certainly pretending to be a happy housewife is out the proverbial window along with the baby’s bathwater.
Now I’m just getting through. Like everyone else. And trying to stay well and safe while not looking in mirrors.
My roots are coming through apace and I have been sent these by my colourist……..