Hair. Or lack of it. I’ve started dreaming about hair recently. I’ve dreamt about washing it, brushing it, tying it back. I’ve been wondering where my hairbrush is and contemplating the shampoo supplies once more. This is all prompted by the No. 1 fuzz, colour indeterminate, that is currently adorning the top of my head. And eyebrows to match. New hair; it must be spring! Anyhow, there’s a good chance that it’ll grow back curly as apparently that’s what often happens after chemotherapy.
The last time I had curly hair I was about three years old; there’s a photograph on my bedroom wall to prove it. It was one of my mother’s favourite tales, the story of The Day GPM’s Curls Disappeared. Big brother was off school for the day, sick I’m told. “We’ll play barbers” he decided. “I’ll be the barber and you can be the customer” in true big brother fashion. My mother came into the room to find him wielding a pair of scissors and the pair of us surrounded by my shorn, curly locks. Apparently, although my hair grew back, my curls never returned.
Curls, eh? I was sort of hoping I might find myself with long, sleek, golden locks. The sort of hair that swings altogether as you move, glinting in the light with not a strand out of place nor a split end in sight. Certainly no grey bits. And while I’m at it, perhaps I’ll find that all those wrinkles have magically disappeared. I’ll be tall, slim and blindingly intelligent with a searing wit.
Mmm. I think perhaps I’ll just settle for hair. Any sort, I won’t be picky. Despite it being 6 months or so since I last had hair, I still haven’t got used to looking in the mirror and seeing a bald head staring back. The reflection has improved, in my eyes at any rate, since my eyebrows put in an appearance. But I’ve had enough. I just want hair. Now!
And if I did wake up tall and slim and all the rest of it I wouldn’t fit into that nice new dry suit I bought last summer and have hardly worn.