These last few days of full lockdown are annoying me now. So much so that I surprised myself yesterday by booking a hotel for a few days in Cornwall in May. No idea if I’ll actually go, but I’d like to think I will. Just for a bit more walking. I’m so tired of tramping around my local area, beautiful though much of it is, but hopefully the sea air and cliff paths will be more invigorating.
Anyhow, when I booked it I was still reeling from another brief encounter with the window-cleaner. I cheerily popped my head out of the back door when he was tackling the kitchen windows the other day and enquired after his health etc. Did he want a cup of tea (now my china-cup-proper-coffee-making neighbour has moved away!)?
No, he still doesn’t want my tea or inferior coffee, but then…
…”I expect you’re looking forward to next week?” (Cheery laugh)
“Well, I’m not sure it will make a huge difference to me day to day” (I say, rather low-key and morose I suppose, but that’s me)
…”Hairdressers are open!” (Bastard!)
So, I’ve spent the last couple of days being appalled at my huge band of grey hair which I had hitherto almost accepted. I think perhaps I’ll have to stay indoors forever now, unless I adopt a hat.
I hate hats.
*And what is more, this has also driven me back to Fleabag (which I had recently weaned myself off) to check the quote in the script. It seems that, much against my better judgment, “Hair. Is. Everything.”
And if that is actually the case and my hair is everything about me, then I am properly old – and that hurts.
Mind you, the greyness does seem to be self-highlighted, varied in colour and actually streaked as though someone has put in some little foils overnight while I was sleeping. So, let me just take a moment to feel vindicated, as it confirms what I have valiantly proclaimed over the years that my hair highlights itself, which people always seemed to disbelieve. So there. I win.