I was in my room the other day wondering whether or not there was a fox outside in the garden. I felt like maybe there was. It was dark and I was playing my Coolio tape pretty loud so, realistically, I just had no way of knowing. After a fretful hour and a half, I accepted this and began instead to imagine my ideal hairstyle.
Pause for a moment to think of the bald. Many babies are bald, but they act like they don’t care. Men, insecure about their hairline, could learn a lot from those babies – striding purposefully around their playpens. Confident, just like babies with hair.
Regular readers will take their fibre and also know that my ex-husband is bald. It certainly never bothered me. In fact, I used to do my make-up in his shining pate on our way to official events.
Cultural diversity was big back then, and each Hannukah I would present Michael with a hat from around the world. His favourite was the Rastafarian beanie with attached dreadlocks. It really suited him.
When my new boyfriend loses his hair, I will start the same tradition with him. That’s some time away yet, Miguel is only in fifth year and has waist-length red ringlets. That’s not a dig at Michael, it’s simply the truth.
Men with hair, don’t you want to make an impression? Get the ladies to throw you a bone? Well, forget your short back and sides. Get yourself two high pony-tails and a set of cheeky bangs. I promise you this – every woman in the room will feel something stir inside her. It might be pity, or revulsion, but any reaction is better than none when you’re a lonely accountant.
Onwards, to my ladies! I am never bored on the bus for two reasons. The first is my fear of city people and their unpredictability. The second is my ever-growing list of bus activities, like puffing on the peace pipe with my brethren at the back, or sitting up front and pretending to drive.
Lately, I’ve been gazing around at hairstyles and basing my judgements about people on them. . Low ponytail? Low standards. Promiscuous. Curly hair? Curly brain. Dopey.
My conscience tells me to “shtop judging Maeve, that’s wong”. Luckily, my conscience has a high, lilting voice and a double lisp, so it’s easy to undermine and ignore.
I am 90 per cent of the way toward achieving my dream hairstyle. The last time I got my hair cut, I didn’t get A Rachel or A Cheryl. I got A Bob. I tore a page out of a 1979 book featuring photos of brothel patrons on the Texas-Mexico border and showed it to the hairdresser. She gave me the short, flat look I wanted but couldn’t help me with the mournful eyes.
One day soon, I will look like a Mitford sister. Not the Nazi one, the one who lived for a long time and kept hens. Happy, practical, and slightly forbidding – ideal.