I made a pact with the Goddaughter and I stuck to it. A glass of champagne too many on the Eve of 2013 saw me agreeing to grow my hair.
Now, over a year and a half later, I’m ready to stick a paper bag over my head. In my dreams I saw myself with shoulder length locks, framing my face in bouncy curls. In reality, I look like an unkempt mad woman in desperate need of help - from both a hairdresser and possibly a psychiatric nurse.
My hair doesn’t like to grow beyond a certain length. It just doesn’t get it. It panics and has no idea what it should be doing. So during the transitional period, I’ve tried various taming techniques - a few long layers, a tidy up on the length, some very strong words in the mirror. Nothing has worked.
Mr Misfit hasn’t been much help. When I told him I was growing it, he frowned. ‘I love the bob. The bob is you.’ Now it’s longer he doesn’t want me to go back to the bob! Men, huh?! But I think the main reason is that he wants to support my hair-brained aspirations and doesn't want to be responsible for a decision I might regret.
After a particularly Wayward Hair Day last week, I booked my hairdresser for this Saturday to do the deed. Now of course, I’m looking in the mirror and my hair’s decided to behave. It’s the Dental Appointment Syndrome, isn’t it? The minute the appointment’s made, the toothache magically disappears.
Why are we never happy with what we’ve got? My hair is poker straight and I long for curls. Other women with those bouncy locks I long for spend hours straightening the life out of them. I just wish I could be like the Sindy (or possibly Tressy?) doll I used to play with, and with one press of my belly button, my hair could be either long or short depending on my mood. Why can’t life be that simple?
I can almost guarantee that when I have my hair cut on Saturday, I’ll hate it. Hubbie will probably like it because deep down I'm sure he’s always preferred the bob. My mum will say it’s taken years off me because she hates my hair longer, and ‘Fenella’ will give me a good telling off because she thinks the longer look is ‘more youthful’!
But at the end of the day, I’ve made the decision now and I’m sure, once I get used to the ‘new, old me’ again, I’ll be fine.
If anyone should manage to invent the Belly-Button-Hair-Growing App before then please let me know as I’d happily be a willing tester.