Well, well, well. My latest miniscule milestone has come a little early: at some point overnight, DoctorDi registered 10,000 views. I was hoping to get there by the blog’s second birthday on September 29, so we made it a month and half early thanks to all of y-o-u. Thank you. Thanks very much. I feel really proud that this tiny, obscure little page of mine keeps ticking over, slowly but surely, and has exceeded my own pretty modest expectations and secret hopes. My average per post is hovering around 26 views, so you’re out there, and at least some of you are coming back. It makes me want to work harder and make the posts better, so I guess that’s my undertaking to you as I stare out over the cyber summit I’ve reached today. 10,000 views… from here, that appears to stretch for miles!
Right now I’m thinking about hair. I wish I could tell you I was thinking worthier thoughts, but I’m not. It’s all deeply superficial (ha). Vain, vain, vain. I can’t get my hair out of my head. And I blame Tamsin and Sophie, and you can too. I was travelling along perfectly happily with my bland head of hair until they started suggesting I cut it. I can’t remember the first time they brought it up, but it seems to me that the past few times I’ve seen them, the Campaign for Change has been mounted with increasing force. It’s like the tidal wave building up behind Barack Obama, except here it’s more, er, semi-permanent.
It’s true I’ve had the same hairstyle for a while. Coming up to four years in December. It’s not exactly cutting edge (ho ho ho… wow, they’re just flying out the door today…), but nor is it without merit. It’s peaceable hair, really, it means no harm and causes little offence. I quite like it, because it’s easy as hell (cannot tell you the last time I took to it with a blow dryer), and yet it’s not the bob I know I’m destined to wear for the majority of my time on earth. It’s as inescapable as eventual death: I am fated to be bobbed.
You have to know my hair as intimately as I do to understand this. Oh, it’s got a lot to do with my ears as well. They… protrude. Not enough that I’m openly mocked on the street by roving gangs of teenage girls, but enough that I was teased about them when I was a teenager myself. They stick through my hair sometimes, which I despise. Watching the wedding DVD my friend Michael kindly shot for me of the ceremony and the speeches, I was soldered to my chair in horror by the sight of my fucking ears sticking out of my hair throughout my ENTIRE speech. I couldn’t even pretend to listen to what I was saying. It was all about the ears. “Blah blah blah sticky out-y ears blah blah ears blah ears ears ears, would you look at my fucking ears.” My profile was cruel. I hated it. More stupid vanity, you see. You know all about it – remember the photos Flic took of me? I hate them. I tried to like them, with all my heart, but I looked hard and was forced to conclude they’re just not flattering at all. And I need flattering. I’m just not good looking enough to get away with it otherwise. So my ears are a source of TORMENT. And their protrusion means that certain haircuts are simply Out. Of. The. Question. Gamin? Elfin? Galladrian? I don’t think so.
Then there’s the hair itself. I often joke that I have a hundred hairs on my head, and a hundred hairs only. Sometimes it doesn’t seem like an exaggeration. I have very fine hair, and not terribly much of it. It’s the colour of an ageing, long-suffering mouse. A real ‘nothing’ brown. But it’s mine. It’s the colour of my hair, so what are you gonna do?! I went through a period in my early twenties of colouring my hair and I think it was even once officially ‘Aubergine,’ but I don’t know that any of it suited me any better than the colour I’ve got right now. In fact, I look at photos from back then and think Mother of God, would you look at that she-devil? I look like I crack whips at infantilists on my days off. Scary. Scary stuff. I’m not that person, is the thing. I’m not that person at all. Really I am quite nice and occasionally cry at sentimental ads – I don’t drink blood or keep Llew in chains.
So now the question is this: do I cut it off – face up to my bobbed future – or just leave it that little bit longer for that little bit longer? So far I’ve got two for (Sophie and Tamsin) and two against (Lea and Aengus). Llew is quite wisely sitting on the fence, and my hair stylist Kim, the Agent of Change, otherwise known as the fastest scissors in the east, is revealing nothing. I’ll have to wait until I walk into Valonz on Friday to see what he thinks. We have discussed it before, and thus far he’s been pro retention of what little length I’ve got (and let’s be real: no one in their right mind could call my hair ‘long’). What will it be this time?
Of course, it depends on what I think, in the end, but I really don’t know. Hair’s never been my strong suit, or should that be my hirsute?