You may recall that about a week and a half ago I took the plunge sartorially speaking and had a fringe cut into my hair. This is the most significant and radical change I have made to my hair since I had a very bad hair month after Tallulah was born. I was extraordinarily fat after Tallulah arrived, mainly due to the fact that I ate three whole rhubarb crumbles a week for about six months during her gestation, and the fact that I was too sick to do anything other than eat rhubarb crumbles.
The main problem I was having at the time I decided to go for the radical do was that six weeks after she was born we had to fly to Canada. Unsuitable ex husband’s brother was getting married. We had to go. I knew I was never going to lose the weight. I thought I would distract attention by having something ‘interesting’ done with my hair. I went for lots of colour. I went for volume, I went for layers. I went for everything I could lay my hands on. I ended up looking like this:
Crossed with this:
But fatter and more mullety.
It was not a good look. It did detract from the increased girth but I didn’t like the look of shock and open mouths that came with it.
I have played safe ever since until the fringe.
So you can see how the fringe was a bit of a sensitive issue. An emotional hot spot if you will.
My dad, who is a singularly unobservant man, only noticed it today. I have seen him at least three times since I had it cut in.
Today he saw fit to comment on it. He said:
‘You look like Yvette Fielding.’
For those of you who are not au fait with Yvette. Here she is:
Now, there are worse people to look like in the world. Zsa Zsa Gabour, Charles Aznavour, Justin from CBeebies, but we’re not talking Kate Moss are we? I mean bless Yvette. She is a lovely, albeit squeaky woman. When she looks like a bush baby crapping her pants via the power of night vision cameras on her ghost hunting show, I am the first to sympathise. It doesn’t mean I am looking for people to chase down the street with their autograph books asking if I can channel Aunt Edna.
I even know that yes, possibly, a bit, I have been known to resemble La Fielding at times. Particularly the times I went for a fierce perm and she was doing dreadful things on Blue Peter. I had hoped I had moved away from all that. I am o.k. with secretly admitting that I may have a passing resemblance to the woman, but I don’t want it broadcast around by the people who are supposed to love me the most. It’s a bit like saying very loudly; ‘Hmm! That extra roll of fat really suits you.’ or; ‘It’s not everyone who can pull of Hawaiian print with a bosom like that. Well done.’
You might think it.
You would never say it.
Not to the people you love the most.
Unless you’re my dad, apparently.
My dad called my on my 25th birthday to advise me I was the wrong side of 25?!
That is actually a rather nice picture of her….
Dad’s are just so good at that kind of thing.
yes, father’s are great for that. “*that’s* what you’re wearing?” was one of my father’s greater comments. when you nervously asked why did he ask that, he always said he just wanted to be sure you were ready to go.
though i don’t think my father has ever commented on my hair since the day he cut it off when i was 5.
Bronxbee
Unsuitable Exe’s line was always: ‘Are you going out in that?’ it would bring me to my knees every time. Every time.
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