I had a terrible night's sleep last night. I was wide awake at 3 a.m. and happily listening to music on my iPhone. At 7.30 a.m. I was dead to the world. However, I staggered out of bed and happened to glance sideways. I backed away in horror and wondered who'd stuck the picture of the scary mad woman with the sticking up hair on the mirror.
But no, it was me.
I dashed into the shower before I frightened the dogs. When my head was liberally covered with shampoo, I wondered why my hair always does that. My hairdresser can tame it but she has the advantage of 5-gallon cans of spray, gel and other wonderful potions. Without these things, I can frighten dogs.
So I was idly cursing my stubborn hair when my mind moved on to photos. Especially this photo:
It raises several questions, doesn't it? Like what in hell's name was my mother thinking of letting me be caught by a camera in such a state? Why didn't she do something with my hair - spit on it, iron it, anything? Are we in some sort of fancy dress show? Did she think it a good idea to attend said show cleverly disguised as crazy people? What's that old car doing in the background? Why are we wearing vintage clothes? Anyone would think I'd been born in the 60s or even the 50s. Perish the thought!
Having loathed hats for many, many years, I've finally reached the conclusion that there are days when a hat definitely helps. The day that photo was taken was one of those days. Today is another.