PROLOGUE

I regard the state of my hair as a metaphor for the state of my life. Many times have I said to myself; No wonder I can’t control my life- I can’t even control my hair. Probably as I sailed into yet another business meeting attired elegantly and appropriately in a nice business   suit and sensible shoes – topped by hair that made me look like I had been dragged through a hedge backwards. Here are just some of the hair-related remarks that have punctuated my life;

At school; Sr. Benedict; “You” …she’d say as she dug her knuckles into my shoulder. (A move I’ve seen martial arts practitioners use to paralyse people). “You…don’t come to school again without brushing your hair.” Useless to protest that I had already shed tears that day as my poor mother strove to untangle the riot of curls with a comb.

At work; a male colleague remarked that he could always identify me from the back – as no one else on the workforce had “leonine” hair like mine.

My brother-in-law; “It’s funny but that kind of scraggy hairdo or whatever you call it, suits you.”  (Was that actually meant to be a compliment?) And I think “bedhead” is the correct technical term…

The Postman; “Are you just up?” This at 2.30 in the afternoon…

No, I don’t have neat and tidy hair.  But then, life is not neat and tidy either.

I had to get my photo taken a few months ago for my CV. The instructions for women were; no jewellery, plain dark top, straight hair, not pinned up. So I went to the hairdresser and got my hair straightened for the photo. The result? A photo of me that doesn’t look like me, to show people what I look like in real life, only of course I don’t.

A while ago, I decided to try a different hairdresser. One who had obviously qualified in a different country, if not on a different continent.  Got stuck into the coffee and magazines and paid no attention to what my new, non-national hairdresser was doing. The result? By the time I surfaced from photos of the royal wedding I had been given a short –back- and –sides and scrunch dried. I looked like a very fetching dish scrubber.  Lunch time hair activities over, I went back to work. One of my Company Directors observed me in silence for a few minutes before he came out with; “I don’t know how to describe it, (allow me to describe it for you- brillo pad) but it suits you”.  Later another Director came into my office; “I like the new hairstyle –it takes years off you Oh God I suppose I shouldn’t have said that”. Hello? Do I normally look a hundred and ninety and just hadn’t noticed? I had to stop him in his tracks before he upset himself. It didn’t bother me in the slightest, not after all these years.

The piece de resistance? On Christmas Eve I had my hair done and headed straight from the hairdressers to visit my Mother in her nursing home. She took one look at me and said: “Did you not  get your hair done for Christmas”

I rest my case.

So is it any wonder that I’m now divorcing? I decided to write a divorce diary, a week by week, blow by blow (no, not literally, we haven’t resorted to fisticuffs -yet) account. As you see, my blog photo is obviously not me but it does reflect my feelings which are hedgehog-like. I just want to curl up in a ball. When this is all over I will close this divorce diary and my last post will be a photo of me, the new me or rather the old me in the new life. That’s my intention anyway. In a way, this will be a sort of going backwards, forwzrds and sideways journal. One thing I will promise; everything in it will be true. No matter whether I want to admit it or not.