Bad Hair Day.

My hair doesn’t look too good these days. I do realise that ‘out of condition’ is a female prerogative, but mine seems to be experiencing whatever the male equivalent is.

‘Do you suffer from flyaway hair?’ asks the shampoo advert.

‘No, I suffer from hair that looks like a jellyfish stranded way above the tide line at lunchtime on a hot day in July. Flat, and dead as a dodo’s great-grandfather.’

‘But everybody’s hair is dead,’ croon the experts who Know It All.

‘Not as dead as mine,’ I quip wittily.

My hairdresser might be partly to blame. I think she’s losing the plot, but – in all fairness – I suppose a combination of the menopause and a frozen shoulder must make life difficult.

She told me the last time she cut my hair that she has trouble undoing her bra strap. I thought it a very strange thing to say, especially coming from a Scorpio born and raised in an English country village. One would expect a greater level of restraint from such a person. I think it might have something to do with the Mayan calendar.