Friday, 18 January 2013
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.