There’s been a lot happening, and my hair has been neglected. It’s reaching Peak Witchy. I know this, and it’s been my list to fix, but I had not realised it had become so offensive to others until my father called me to order.
Now, let the record show that Frank is not a fashionista. He buys his clothes from Ebay and Vinnies and the greatest accolade he can give an item is that it cost less than $2. His collection of hats would make the Queer Eye crew weep. And yet, he was outraged by the state of my hair. That’s how bad it must be.
On his front deck last week, Dad was idly filling me in on Henry 8th, his project out the back and the latest family gossip when he suddenly said ‘But what is wrong with your hair?’
‘What?’ I said. ‘I need a haircut.’
‘No, Rach’, he said. ‘It looks really bad.’
‘I know, Dad!’ I said. ‘I’ve been really busy. I’ll sort it out.’
He looked closer. ‘Rach, it’s like three different colours!’ he said. ‘It’s all fuzzy! It looks terrible! ‘
‘Easy, tiger,’ I said.
‘No, it’s really rough’, he finished. ‘Do you understand? It looks very, very bad.’
I thanked him for helping me sort out that pesky high self-esteem problem I’d been grappling with. Dads eh? At least he forced me to sort out my hair. Now I just have to make sure he doesn’t find out how long it’s been since I waxed my legs.
Pants around Frank, self. Always wear pants around Frank.
Hair, After (with added confused quizzical expression of the four-eyed git and uncomfortable selfie-taker)
And so, on with life! I may be all over the place like a mad womans shit, but at least my hair doesn’t give me away.