Up until recently and I mean really recently, I thought of myself as a bit of a swamp donkey or perhaps more fittingly as the female Stig of the Dump due to my innate inability to brush my hair or even own a hairbrush. I realised that something had to be done when one of my colleagues actually pointed and laughed at the birds nest my hair had whipped itself up in to over the course of my average Monday. The fabled chat up line ‘You don’t sweat much for a fat lass’ is a complete load of wank and if anyone out there can find me an aforementioned fat lass who doesn’t sweat like a nun in Anne Summers then I’ll eat my hat (in teeny tiny portions so I don’t stretch my new pouch). And therein lies the rub; I sweat, my hair gets greasy and stringy and I start to look a bit like Neil from ‘The Young Ones’ which means my morning routine goes like this: Wake up; realise I’m late; consider another ten minutes in bed; debate this for 8 minutes; get up and run to the shower; wash my hair; realise I don’t know where my hairdryer is or how to turn it on so shove my hair up using whatever implements are available (pens, chopsticks, rulers, elastic bands, string etc)and dash out of the house. Having ones hair smooshed up in the morning when it’s wet means that when it does come down it’s nicely tangled/matted with random curly pieces. If I added some delicately placed straw to my barnet I’d look like I’d either been for a romp in a hayloft or that I was off to a Worzel Gummidge convention.
Having been told by a family member that I look like a lesbian when I wear trousers and need to be more girlie in order to get a man (argh, is she one of those awful creatures who thinks that a womans only purpose is to make nice, attract a rich man and get married? You bet your ass she is, but I love her anyway) I was doggedly determined that I would resist the urge to feminize myself purely to piss said family member off. I had even contemplated ordering some Osh Kosh B’Gosh dungarees and Doc Martins to really push the stereotypical boat out and drive the tactless family matriarch to a transient ischemic attack (just kidding!). However…. Long Tall Ally has started to take pride in looking more feminine, which is pissing her right off as it could potentially mean that the matriarch was right. Not about me looking like a lesbian in trousers, or needing to dress more feminine in order to get a man but that the day would come where I would (and this is the crucial bit) want to be more feminine.
I went out and got contacts, finally bidding farewell to my eighth grade band camp geek glasses and thought that my transformation would end there. I don’t think I could have been more wrong unfortunately, as I’ve just booked to see an orthodontist about having adult braces so I can still maintain some of my band geek charm sans glasses but end up with straighter nicer teeth at the end and I succumbed to buying proper job girlie shampoo. My shampoo buying usually consists of buying the biggest, cheapest bottle of ‘Suds N Go’ that I can find on the shelf and calling it quits. This time, I even went as far as getting suckered in by the advertising men and went out to get myself some hairapy – let’s see who else was swayed by Anthony Marantino doing the voiceover 😉 – including a colour boost conditioner. I don’t think the matriarch has ever been prouder.
I hate that she’s right because it means I can already see an apology looming on the horizon of our relationship. No, not from her to me for calling me dykeadelic in the first place but from me to her for being snotty and not bowing down to her all-encompassing feminine knowledge. I wish I could halt the feminization process and just enjoying wearing jeans and trainers for a little while longer but I can feel the shops calling my name.