WHILE the nation has found itself paralysed between a rock and a hard place over that below-the-belt picture of our president, I’ve been chewing on other topics this week.
If government officials and activists spent less time being uppity and more being proactive about my personal problems, I’d be a much happier citizen. Until then, nobody else is as interested in me as I am, which is why I’d rather discuss my hair than penis politics.
Since body parts are all over the news, it’s suspiciously ironic that I’m having my own battle – and I doubt that anybody could possibly imagine what it’s like unless it’s happened to them.
All my life, until probably six years ago, I had the most beautiful hair. The type that covers for you when you have zits, a hangover or the blues. A soft waterfall that whips in the wind like an untamed pony, but doesn’t look like a rat’s leftovers when you go back inside.
In short, it was long and luscious and now it’s not. And because I’m a woman, that stinks. Bald men still run countries; bald women are classed as religious zealots or butch cross-dressers with axes to grind. It’s not fair.
My hair has always gone to my head. It worked and because it did, so did I.
Bad hair days were a cinch: tie up in chignon, wear red lipstick and look aggressively corporate for the day.
But after having kids, my tresses went South, together with my boobs. Bits kept falling out (still do) and the chocolatey-red hair colour won’t stay in longer than a few weeks.
There are also funny little grey spikes sticking straight up on my scalp. Why doesn’t this matter on George Clooney, but looks so damn ridiculous on me?
Thing is, if I had time – it’s always about time, isn’t it? – I’d do something about this. But when chasing food down your gullet is about the most you can do of a morning, you let your hair down. Literally.
It’s as my friend Penny said, quoting Sue Grafton: “If high heels were so wonderful, men would still be wearing them”.
Chicks are hard-wired to work their butts off from the top down – good hair, flat tums, a bodacious bum and pedicured tootsies. But when you’ve only got a five minute window to get dressed and out of the house, what’re you going to choose?
I mostly go with brushing my teeth. There’s a conspiracy against my head and I know that I’m not alone. At this rate, I’ll never get myself painted or discussed in parliament.