Hair

When one is young, one takes one’s hair for granted.

Today marks six months exactly until I have another big birthday. And in preparation for this big and significant event, I am embarking on a new journey into podcasting.

I did try it two years ago, and my guest speaker (Boy Seymour) and I had a laugh, but we have not done another since. I have, however, since fallen in love with podcasts, and wanted to join in the fun! For real!

Today I have posted my second episode and in it I discuss my current first world dilemma that is “What to do with my hair?” It is a difficult one. I don’t want to hang onto the longish locks that I’ve currently got just because I can’t think of what else to do with them. So do I cut it all off? Do I chop half? Do I… embrace the grey?

Bangs, fringe, mullet, fade, pixie. So many options! I cant decide.

I have, in recent days, been able to try on new hairstyles risk-free, as I find myself stepping into a few roles in the local village musical. I wear a bushy, bushy blonde hairdo wig, and an ombre bob wig – and I must admit, I quite like the latter. But the concept of actually going to a hairdresser and asking for an ombre bob is so alien. Would they understand the brief? Would they talk me out of it? Would it fry my hair completely, once and for all?

When one is young, hair is hair. Most people have good hair in their teens and twenties – because it is YOUNG. I am realising more and more that to look nice when you’re older just takes more work, and I am not sure I can be bothered. I’m my own worst enemy. Then again, as Lee Perry says in the Sunscreen song, “Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time you’re forty it will look eighty-five.” Maybe I should have left it alone all along, as I swore to do when I was thirteen, remarkably prudish and anti anything involving fashion and conforming to style.

I have hope, though, that soon, my first world hair problems may well be no more. Mini Seymour is considering a career in hairdressing. She is already quite a pro at false lashes, and appears to have the patience to actually sit and do these intricate procedures not just for herself but for others, too. In return for board and lodgings, she will coif my bonce and make me presentable! I shall be her mannequin.

Boy Seymour had his Spanish exam today – I hope he managed to talk about his favourite tomato festival again. But the poor chap’s confidence and positivity is waning now; he is all exammed out. I must cut him some slack when he comes in and remember he is not lazy, he is just mid GCSEs. I will try to turn a blind eye to the mess he leaves in his wake and stop trying to dispel his naive belief that you gain knowledge by osmosis and not by revision (I have flogged that dead horse).  Until next Wednesday, when his exams are done, I shall go easy on him. But afterwards, I will be expecting him to get all domestic and earn his keep.

Maybe when he’s got more time I will interview him on my podcast again! He can tell me all about his hair, which is very much of its time. Boys’ hair these days is something else. I asked him what his hairstyle is called, expecting a shrug at such a silly question but no. Apparently, the pouffy, fluffy, curly fringed blowouts boys have these days are called – wait for it – Edgars. Can you believe it! They’re called Edgars! I actually hooted out loud. That’s classic. But why? Why are they called that? He couldn’t tell me.

I must therefore do my own research into Edgars as I trawl the internet for more ideas on how to turn fifty. What will Google tell me to do with my barnet? Maybe I should invest in that app that shows you how hairstyles look on your face… or maybe I’ll just get an Edgar and have done with it. They’re all the rage, you know.

(Podcast episode here.)