|Fran left it as long as she could between visits to the salon, and in the meantime, wore|
a most attractive headscarf which she thought flattered her facial features tremendously
Sunday, 29 September 2013
Reasons why Fran leaves it as long as possible before getting her hair trimmed
I sent the following short 'Rant' article to The Oldie magazine, which is one of those publications that has lots of adverts in it for Tena pads and stairlifts. You know the ones. And if you don't, you will, one day.
Anyway, they sent it straight back, saying it wasn't quite right for them, and they wished me luck with placing it elsewhere.
So, rather than suffer further rejection, I am taking the easy way out, and placing it here, which is called 'making your own luck'. It doesn't pay as well, but it means you get instant publication.
Why are ladies' hairdressers so young?
Next year, I’m booking a holiday in Ibiza. Do I know what Ibiza's like? No. Do I really want to go? Not at all. In fact, I want a holiday in Ibiza like I want to bathe in a tub of mealworm.
But I have to do something so I don’t feel so Biblically old in the hair salon while a twelve year old cuts my greying hair and asks, ‘Doing anything nice for your holiday?’ I can see her reaction in the mirror when I admit I’ve booked a country cottage in Ambleside with Gentle Rentals and ‘can’t wait for the cream teas’. Her face drops (though at least, for her, that’s temporary) and she says, ‘That sounds lovely’. What she means is, ‘I’d rather a week in Guantanamo Bay.’
Why aren’t there any hairdressers over fifty? Is it just about the collapsed leg veins? - because I’d be happy to pay extra so my stylist could get them sorted on BUPA. Visits to a salon staffed with rake-like, glossy-haired teens do nothing for my self-esteem. There’s something about the way they look at me, as if thinking, ‘Why is she bothering with a trim? Surely this time next week she’ll be embalmed.’
I need a hairdresser more my age, so she’ll understand why a hot flush in your hall really can make you twenty minutes late for an appointment. I need one who massages her hip occasionally and goes ‘Ooh!’ so that when I go ‘Aah!’ as I stand up, she won’t offer to call an ambulance. I need one with upper lip hair so she won’t laugh in Starbucks later with her friends, saying, ‘I swear the old hag had more growth on that lip than I’d just cut off her fringe!’
And I demand the return of the net curtains. They may be old-fashioned, but I want a private perm. If I’d wanted to provide light entertainment for locals, I would do amateur dramatics.
Right. Where’s that Ibiza brochure?