My Father took pity on me, and gave me some shekels for a haircut.
He has been reminding me daily to get this haircut. Which would be helpful, except I’ve already had it. The first time he reminded me to get it, I smiled modestly and promised that I would. The second time, I nodded my agreement firmly. The third time, I started wearing a cap.
I’m not quite sure what to do about this. I’m certain that my hair never looks better, no matter how dreadful the cut, than in the few hours after I leave the hairdressers. And those hours are long gone. ‘Just say something,’ Perhaps some of you will be urging me. Some of you are idiots. My Father, unsurprisingly, is a man. If I have had a haircut that he cannot even notice, he will certainly not think that was money well spent. (Bear in mind, this is a man who, when he found out I was popping off to see my beautician, asked why he did not get to come. ‘It seems rather unfair,’ He pointed out. ‘You are more than welcome to have a bikini wax,’ I told him).
But back to the hair on my head. I’ve peered at myself in the mirror, and it certainly looks cut to me. But perhaps I’ve become one of those self-deluding women who stare at themselves in the changing room mirror and say, ‘You know, I think I’ve lost weight’ while their flab flobbles over the top of their new jeans.
I just popped downstairs to see my Father, and spent much of our conversation flicking my hair like Farrah Fawcett having an epileptic fit. No use. Perhaps I’ll have to go have it cut again. It really seems like the most economically sensible thing to do.