I snuck back home
Like a cat
Through back alleys
Shiny with rain
Crept back to my boys
Noiseless, past bins
Spotted the odd cat
Slinking off round corners.
My shadow switching on security lights
Yellow, wet patches stretching ahead, then
Gone, they switch off, fade to gloom.
Unheard, unknown, untroubled,
And the high heels?
The click click click
Sharp reminder that a lone female
Is out at night, alone
Wending whither to wherever
Feeling vulnerable in the back alleys
Of a neighbourhood called home
Dark and deserted.
No high heels.
I like my anonymity
Doing my thing, being who I am
Without the dead giveaway
The difficult to wear, anyway
The penalty points
Those spiky heels.
The disadvantage of the enforced swivel
The forwards tip
The concentrated balance
Forget being comfortable
Forget feeling chilled
My hair was always my ‘thing’. Thick, dark, dramatic. When I was a little girl I had a crow. Blackie. Well strictly speaking, my brother did. He shimmied up a tree and stole it from a nest, though he only admitted that recently, having said for years it had fallen out, just in time to be rescued. So Blackie would perch on my shoulder and preen and peck away at my wild nest of hair. We made quite a pair.
Now my hair is coming out. It’s all over the bathroom floor, the kitchen floor, the corridor. They’re the areas with light tiling – I can pretend it’s not all over the carpets as it is less easy to see there. So it nests in the carpet, festers till I get the vac out.
The top of my head, the ‘crown’ is no longer host to my crowning glory. It is patchy, like a mangy dog. Oh and did I mention ageing? Well, I always looked really young for my age. Not anymore – or as far as my hair is concerned.
I’m 60 in September. I just moved to London, just in time to get my ‘Freedom’ pass to the city – trains, buses, the tube. All those eyes! And I’m thinking about hats, headscarves, feathers. Well, maybe not feathers. Not that brave, just yet (Rose Rouse).Still, I need to find some camouflage.
A woman told me recently at a party that I was very brave to come out without covering up my (lack of) hair. We all have faults, she said to my reaction of surprise, as if I should own it, grow up. Well, I was shocked because I admit I’m still in denial. I honestly thought that making a poor attempt at a double-plait at the back of my head (a piece drawn from each side) with a jewel blue slide, would hide my thinning hair. Clearly, it didn’t. On reflection, I honestly think she meant well, though she hit a a sore spot. Or more accurately, various bald spots. So what to do?
Writing this article is one way of outing myself about it. I really do want to feel more relaxed about it all.
Several comments to my venting in a Facebook post suggested shaving it off altogether. Serena Constance even posted up a pic of an elderly lady with a bald head, tattooed all over – just to complete the deal, egg the pudding and gild the lily. She looked striking. Talking of striking, Serena arrived at a recent ‘For the Flamboyant’ Advantages of Age party wearing a kind of…well, Aztec headdress and as she arrived we all clapped her down the stairs. A fabulous entrance.
Loss. I’m losing my identity. My hair has always been so ‘me’, so much of myself is bound up in visions of dark-haired beauties. ”I want to look like Elizabeth Taylor” I told a hairdresser, many years ago and he gave me an ‘urchin’ cut that was just so Liz, it was thrilling. People remarked about it on the street.
I started to go white when I was 17 – it looked wonderful actually when my hair was silvered with ‘grey’ hairs. Then it was streaky like a badger’s coat. Then aged 30, it just began to fall out. If I hadn’t had so much to begin with I would have been bald many years ago.
The very idea that I could lose my hair – ridiculous. At my convent school in Cheshire my velour hat was something of a sensation. My friends tried it on – it came down to their noses, looked all Fred ‘Parrot Face’ Davies – remember him? A big bowler slipping down his nose was his calling-card. So I thought I still had a big head and asked the woman at the party if I could try on her amazing hat then said– ”Oh no, it won’t fit my big head”. Which was the starting gun for my rude awakening – as she pointed out it’s just a normal size. It was my hair that made my hat so huge, that made my school friends call me ‘the girl with two heads’. Now I’m just normal – normal head, normal life. Well, if ‘normal’ is a woman going bald on top. Anyone can wear a hat. Not everyone has masses of dark hair.
So do I cling on, root by disappearing root to what I have left? I still have ‘pre-Raphaelite’ tresses at the back. Wavy, still a bit wild, almost tamed. Shall I get a ‘topper’? It’s a weave made from human hair for women with ‘male pattern’ baldness, in which over years the hair just falls out until you develop an impressive monk-like look. You have to go back every six weeks so they can rearrange it over what’s grown back. That’s a lot of time and money (it ain’t cheap) to invest in retaining your ‘real’ hair. Is it hot? Does it itch? Does it look the business? Or does it look a sorry mess?
So now – it’s ‘make your mind up’ time. Shall I go for the ‘scorched earth’ look? The shiny pate? Shall I wear a wig, wondrous hats and scarves? Or just have a topper, the ‘crown topper’ that demolishes my resistance, my determination that I’m still a girl. A wild, untamed girl with a wild, though tamed crow perched on either shoulder. Preening and pecking away at my glorious locks, my calling-card. My hair.