Lisa Reiter, she of the bite sized memoires, has prompted us with a photo challenge around hair.
Bad Hair Day !
Rather unfair, seeing as these days I am folically challenged more than most. In a way, of course, the progression of my hair through the years reflects the seven ages of this particular man (maybe more ages – see for yourself).
The new born – hair? What hair?
A year or so on – for a few short years I thought I was a dashing blond…
We entered the 1960s, but our parents remained rooted in the 1950s. Especially with that bloody parting. And the Tufty Club – look closely and you can see our badges.
It took until the 1970s for the Le Pards to let our hair down
My twenties should have been liberating; I’d left home, gone to university. I was my own man. What was I thinking?
My hair was fine and unmanageable – and never grew any longer despite my best efforts. So a bit like with the housing crisis, having failed to develop in one area, I decided to concentrate my tonsorial artistry elsewhere – time to become a pogonophile.
I played around with beards and taches for years, rather neglecting what was happening atop.
But spending time on the chin meant the top felt neglected and stealthily began to leave for more accommodating pates
My hair’s departure had a mastermind quality: I’ve started so I’ll finish.
Until the full solar panel for a sex god emerged…
And a memory. Here goes.
Dad sort of tilted. His moustache was lopsided and he did lean rather. When driving he liked the window open, a legacy of smoking perhaps, and he would incline towards the door, elbow on the frame. We complained a lot, the Archaeologist and me, about the cold and debris that we had to put up with in the back. Totally ignored, until Mum came to our recue with ‘Des, wind it up, it’s my sciatica’ or some such. Sometime in the 1970s when we both experimented with a longer style of hair, Dad developed a distinct comb over. One day, the atmospherics, car velocity and fate conspired to set said comb over into a spiralling froth above Dad’s head. We both watched, fascinated as the hair-tail, like Isadora Duncan’s silk scarf became sucked into the vortex of the open window.
‘Dad, wind it up. Mum’s neck.’ The Archaeologist knew full well that Dad would remain at his customary 60 degrees while the window went up; however the real question was would the rising glass dampen the frisky little toupee? Not a bit. To our delight, the ends were neatly trapped. Now it was just a case of concentration and patience. We didn’t wait long.
I was about fifteen when this happened. Had I heard Dad say ‘Fucking Hell’ prior to the moment he ripped a tuft from his head as he braked to avoid a slowing lorry? Not that I remember.
So, to end, I’ve always wanted different hair…
And eventually I might end up like my great uncle Beelzebub