I’ve been thinking, it must be quite nice
when you’re old and grey, to be blonde. Now, I do realise I’m in the lucky
position of being a bit old but not having any grey hair …….. well about 5
around the temples at the last count. My father’s hair was practically black
until the day he died …..some kind of legacy from the Spanish Armada that
washed up on the Dorset coast so I’m told…… and there is barely a fistful of
grey hair on my Mum’s head or amongst her sisters, so I don’t think it’s likely
to happen any day soon. However, I met a brilliant woman who is in her 60s and
wears her thick, wavy hair long and in 50 shades of blonde. She dresses in
white and cream and lives in a white and cream house with blonde wood
floorboards. And looks fabulous. Everywhere is clean and sweet scented. And
clean. Very clean. It’s like being in a White Company advert.
I was blonde once. It took five hours to
strip my hair of its natural colour, with chemicals that are probably illegal
now. Halfway through the procedure my hair had turned neon orange, I looked
like the man who fell to earth, there was no
turning back. Eventually, I materialised from the salon with my bleached blonde
mop. Being of an olive complexion with very dark eyebrows it was definitely a
look. What can I say …. I was young. As it grew out I often wore a faux-fur,
Davy Crockett style hat with a tail…… it was the 80s…… you couldn’t tell where
the salt ‘n’ pepper hat finished and my salt ‘n’ pepper hair started.
“Darling, coffee?” my elderly blonde
friend asks in her husky voice, reaching for white mugs kept in a cream
cupboard, big blue eyes peeping out from beneath her long, stripy-blonde
fringe. Perhaps I don’t want to be blonde when I get older, perhaps I just want
to be her.
Top tip:go Caribbean in the snow with Lindt dark chocolate with coconut.....Bounty grows up.
