I caught a glance of myself in the mirror this morning. Shocking, really.
Yesterday I ignored my bed-head (my hair is getting longer, and the result of its intimacy with my pillow at night is increasingly alarming in the morning) because I was going to go on the bike, and wear a helmet, and I just was not going to go to that place where my hair was an issue in public. (Also literally.)
It was difficult, and I accused Fil more than once of laughing at my hair, even though he denied it every time. I still don’t know if I believed him. I concocted varying justifications for my terrible lack of grooming, none of them quite sticking. Anyway. Off we went, and the morning was marked by my hair sticking out in all directions whenever I took off the helmet. There is not much difference between the more extreme cases of bed-head and helmet-head, I swear.
I thought (once only) briefly of the writer of a TV show I was working on who went to Cape Town on the bike with her boyfriend, and who sent me an SMS saying she was “shaking the helmet from her hair” and will get back to me about incredibly overdue storylines and episode beat sheets but never did. In fact, I had to find another writer because her phone mysteriously stopped working. I called her a flake and I stand by that. The hair-shaking thing was just the cherry on the cake.
But I digress.
This morning, after swiftly side-stepping the sight in the mirror, a dreadful thought came to me.
After the road trip to the Magaliesberg yesterday morning, I took my hair to rugby club, which might have been a mistake, and might have been the direct cause of the day ending in the crapper. It’s OK to go roaring around the countryside with a feral head, but when one gets back to Johannesburg it’s time to put every hair in its place.
(I think. It’s a theory. I also think I have to get the papers today, and read them, as opposed to browsing through the headlines. There is another world out there.)