Tag Archives: Hair

The undeserved distress of being a hairy damsel


I just brushed my teeth and my hair, not with the same brush, of course, with completely different brushes, as you do, before you go to bed.

I had a little mishap. Well, a couple of little mishaps, if I’m honest. First, I placed the capsule inside my inhaler (which I have to take right before brushing my teeth, making it thus a part of this story) and as I put it in my mouth to suck on it, I simultaneously, accidentally twisted it and whacked my tooth. Not my already so-often-bashed-tooth-that-it-is-now-a-somewhat-yellow-tooth, I hasten to add, no, it was a completely, undamaged, sparkly white one. I oohed and I aahed somewhat. OK, that is a downright  lie. I cursed and I blasphemed somewhat. Then I brushed my tingling teeth (pain spreads, you know) and then turned to my other brush. My hairbrush.

Now, I should perhaps mention at this point that I was naked. For reason unknown to any man, child or woman. And that included me. It wasn’t that I was expecting any late night hanky panky or anything. I can assure you of that. Because the man of the house had already hit the sack and was snoring blissfully and boomingly. I was ever so slightly ticked off about that, actually. After all, he’d just sent me, moments before, out into the street to put the bucket out for tomorrow’s bin men. And all I’d been wearing was a towelling robe. I’d thrown open the door and had a slight panic attack for a moment, then embraced the cold air and ran out into the dark night tugging on a dustbin. I’d been nostalgically reminded of those luxurious winter moments at the local sauna; leaving the heated cabin and entering the cold winter air wearing nowt but but a pretty robe. Except that I wasn’t sweating but I was dragging a wheelie bin. And my spa experience had been for free.

I’d returned the short distance from the curb to my home like a cross between a clearly amateur ballet dancer and a scrutinising spy, looking for potential serial killers or an unsuspecting, about-to-become-disturbed neighbour.

So I stood, naked, in front of the mirror, and lifted the brush to address the issue of a great big clumpy knot that had inconveniently appeared in my long, russet hair.  I started to tear the hard, wooden brush down through those mischievous strands.

I brushed firmly downwards and then I felt it.

I’d brushed my nipple.

Now, it wasn’t up there with the torture I had put myself through that day I accidentally whisked my nipple. I am still reeling from that experience. I still shudder every time I pick up an electric whisk with my right hand. I shudder but I soldier on. I like to bake. Mainly because I like to eat cake.

But I do suspect naked hair brushing may have gone out of the window. At least, until I have dramatically cut my hair.

But the whole episode made me think. We, damsels, with very long hair, must go through many disturbing experiences that those with short hair absolutely cannot.

Like:

  • Brushing our nipple(s?)
  • Accidentally ‘dropping it’ on a candle flame and igniting it.
  • Our hairdresser insisting that we need to urgently go to the doctor as we’re losing far, far too much hair and then the doctor doing hair removal tests a.k.a. pulling hair from our heads with their bare hands and then telling us “No, your hair’s just long and looks like a lot in the hairdresser’s sink,  but I have to really pull it to get it out, it doesn’t come out at all easily.” At which point we are mouthing the words, “I know!” and wincing back the tears.
  • Accidentally dropping it in our dinner.
  • Finding dried out egg yolk in it.
  • Accidentally dropping it in someone else’s dinner.
  • Getting it stuck under our partner’s or our own body part, yelping, and then having to make a little pause, alter position and refocus during sex.
  • Having a shower before bed, then getting up in the morning to discover that it’s still wet and it’s -10°C outside! As we drop the kids off at school we can feel little ice crystals forming…
  • Getting bored while using a hairdryer thus wandering off to do something else (which, of course, leads on to the point above).
  • Accidentally getting it stuck under a stranger’s shoulder on the bus and going through that embarrassing moment of explaining to them that that comfy cushion they’re enjoying leaning on, is actually our hair.
  • And then, there’s the classic: having it completely blindfold us on a windy day, causing us a near death experience like walking in front of a car or under a ladder.

But the very best, OK, worst long hair experience I know to date is the one of my own daughter, Joni. As you may have gathered it was all my fault and as soon as I can muster up the strength to talk about it, I will let you know. Every. Single. Detail.

Give thanks


It’s time to give thanks to Otto Wichterle.

Who? I hear most of you say.

(He’s the Czech chemist who invented contact lenses. Although, the multi-talented Leonardo da Vinci should be credited for the initial idea.)

Not because without those amazing inventors, I would just wander around my house bumping into blurry furniture. No. Glasses would shield me from such a fate.

But because without contact lenses I would be doing regular impressions of Papa Bear. Either that or physically appearing like the victim of a razor attack.

You see, my glasses help me to see. They deliver me safely across the road. They ensure the knife slices the onion instead of the finger, well, most of the time. They allow me to appreciate the faces of my generally happy children.

But they steam up when I come in from the cold.

Or open the oven door.

And I cannot wear them when having a shower or a bath.

Without Mr Wichterle my world would consist of unutterable measures of self-harm. Blood splattered bathrooms.

And no sex.

After all, what husband is motivated by a constantly injured, blood stained wife or, worse still, an actual werewolf in his bed?

Wild hair


When I woke up this morning
I had curls upon my head
Wild, twirling ringlets
My long straight hair had fled.

Time for school
So wake my son
Who takes a glance
Just one -
Starts to laugh and giggle
At his crazy looking mum.

Blurry eyed and sleepy
I catch sight of myself
In the bathroom mirror
That sits above the shelf.

What’s staring back at me?
I am shocked by what I see
Such a mon-stro-si-ty.

What have I done?
Where have I been?
I thought asleep
What was my dream?

But deep inside
No place to hide
A wish reveals itself:
Curls! CURLS! CURLS!

No longer poker straight
Not lifeless
Not hanging there
But intertwined figures of eight!

The back-combing
To volumize
In my days gone by
Spiral perms, corkscrews
(Along with all the dye).

I feel a little excitement
Even though
I know
Anyone who saw me
Would think me mad from head to toe.

So I decide
For a little while
I’ll support my guise
The one that says to passer-bys

“I just got out of bed!”.

You see,
Between you and me:
My wild hair
Tells of my wild night
With my wild dreams
Which is a component
To be celebrated
Of that wild side
In me. ;-)