I just dyed my short crop electric blue, full strength. I’ve done it before, but only in sneaks and tweaks colour barely there. In my experience of living, there was always the threat of judgement, and yet the rebel streaked through me, causing a flipping hooha, that hooha gathering strength like a right bloody turmoil. I had no idea what to do with it in the days, years, within which I felt I had no control, no point. Ever since, when I have cropped, dyed crazy colours, I have always ‘almost’ done the job. Red woke up as pink (not a good look for me), Green, yellowed, Blue became grey. I was too young for grey. What I wanted was change. I couldn’t do nothing (love the. way language shifts) about the season, the winter, the discontent, thanks Will S. The content frails and fails as the rains and dark comely ins. We straggle, or I do, after fricken endless coldy times, under shrapping waterfalls of pellet rain, sending the wee birds up and away or down and under. It seems to have that hold on continuity, one I recall sensing from a prefect at my boarding school, she who could sit and stare and judge for so long, that I wondered, as did my friends, if her bowels ever got the chance to open. And it was all about punishment and judgement and the power she held.

Back to my blue hair. I may well go, Oh Shit, in the first mirror check tomorrow, but I doubt it, because, this time, I did it, I went the whole hog. And not even me will judge. Its a game, a fun thing, it won’t do damage. It thinks me. Born into a girl time when we were, not quite, expected to marry well and bugger off, Ithe tail of that comet is still in many skies. The expectations, the importance of sons, it existed and thrived in my childhood. Not so much in my family, thank the goodness, but blue hair on the eldest sister might have hesitated the welcomes. Actually, I remember a few of those.