There are all the things that you expect about ageing: The thickening of the waist. The loosening of the inner thighs. Bingo wings, wrinkles, reading glasses, senior moments.
Then there’s all the other stuff you don’t find out about until it happens to you. Strange whiskers on the chin being the first of those that I experienced. Pluck those bastards right out. The lastest of these is hair weirdness. Hair that’s permanently in a mood, won’t do as it’s told at all.
I’m finding this particularly hard to cope with as my hair has always been the one body part I took comfort from. As a stump-legged short arse with no waist and joke shop boobs, hair I could rely on was my saviour. I’m not being up myself – everyone has something like that. I’ve got one good friend with legs as long as the M6. Another with a tiny waist which never increases no matter what happens to her hips. One of my best pals has breasts of such spectacular gravity-defying perfection I’d walk around topless if I had them.
My saving grace has always been hair with body and sheen that never goes lank or frizzy. Until now, when I’m living with a fright wig. Even with the excellent cuts of my wonderful hairdresser, my rug won’t play fair.
It looks wonderful when Giles (of John Frieda, Alford Street, London W1 – tell him I sent you…) blow dries it – and it used to look just as good when I did it. Then suddenly, bam, no matter what I do – leave it to dry naturally, blow dry it upside down – it sticks out like triangular candy floss.
This led to the day in a ghastly motorway café when my mother said to me: ‘Your hair really is awful. You look like Jimmy Saville…’
I have never been so offended – and if you follow the news, you’ll have an idea that there really isn’t anyone on earth you would less like to resemble. I don’t even like typing his name. Making matters worse, my husband agreed with her, the crawler. My darling daughter then sprang to my defence saying: ‘Don’t be so mean to Mummy!’ Then reaching out to squeeze my hand, she put on her best spaniel expression, looked up at me with huge eyes and said, ‘Don’t worry…. Jimmy.’
My husband and mother fell about laughing. I stormed off in a huff that took 24 hours to subside. And the hair hasn’t got any better since.
I’ve been up to see Giles and my equally wonderful colourist Cetera, neither of whom could come up with a reason for my hair mare – Cetera confirmed she never uses bleach on it – until I dared to venture it might be my age. They are both way too polite (and good at their jobs) to leap in to agree, but it was clear: I’ve got old hair and it’s gone weird.
Since then I’ve invested in a lot of product. Always one to be taken in by television advertising I paid out for the Elvive Extraordinary Oil only to find it to be pretty ordinary oil. Then I bought most of the John Frieda Full Repair range. The Deep conditioner is excellent and the Deep Infusion oily stuff is the only thing which has made my tissue paper dry ends lie a little flatter, applied before and after drying.
The inspiration struck. I blogged ages ago about the miracle of Babyliss Big Hair hairdryer – only to leave mine in a hotel room last summer. It had felt wrong to shell out another £40, when I’d been so slack and stupid to lose it, but last week they were on offer in Boots and I bought one.
Finally, my hair is looking like me again and I no longer fear the Saville resemblance. The funny thing is though, if my mum had said I looked like that other shock-haired fellow Andy Warhol (above), I wouldn’t have minded at all.
PS A note about the appearance of this blog. Sigh… Let’s just say I’m having ‘issues’ with the design of it and trying to make it look better, it has ended up going all weird. So please bear with me until I get some professional help. xxx