I am told that redheads are dying out . Which is odd, because whenever I pop into Boots (other pharmacies are available) for something weapons-grade in the way of hairdye, there is never any red left. I was born with luxuriant black hair; a howling gargoyle in a gorilla wig.This didn't help my reputation with the nuns at Seafield Nursing Home in Crosby, where I was born,and it also confirmed their initial impression of my Mother.She had chosen the place of accouchement on the recommendation of her best friend Susan,who had given them considerable return business. In 1955, Aunty Sue ,as we called her, was already three babies up on my Mum, and went on to have seven. She liked Welsh-sounding names, and her babes bore the brunt. There was a Ceri,a Rhiannon, an Owyn, etc. By No.7, and understandably addled, her last girl was christened"Cellador", after the place where the family coal was kept.
Mum had really wanted puppies, and was only superficially resigned to motherhood. She plumped for the swanky private nursing home on the grounds that she was only going to have this one baby, and she was damn well going to have it in luxury. She worked up to the day of my birth, and at the very last had to be coaxed down off a ladder where she was energetically painting the hall ceiling,and bundled off to Crosby in a taxi. A tactless Nursing Sister gave my Mother the encouraging pre-natal snippet of information that "if anything goes wrong,we will always save the baby". "Bugger the baby, I can always have another one" retorted my dear Mamma,thus going down in history as the least maternal woman since Norma Bates. She was in a bad mood because she couldn't paint her toenails,and in an even worse one later that day. "36 stitches!.." one of her favourite rants began "That's EMBROIDERY!"
She was in the nursing home for a week ( how unlike the modern fashion for booting you and baby out into the street five minutes after the gore has been washed off ), and became rather fond of the Seafield House nuns, exchanging cards at Easter and Christmas for many years after her stitches had come out.
The wild black hair went after a month or so, and it appeared that I was a ginger, like my Dad. He was thrilled, and carted me about attached to his suit jacket like a bawling boutonierre. My father had had a little sister,who died of meningitis when she was seven. Doreen,according to my Mum, had been an adorable child with long red ringlets, and was never spoken of at home. When my father died, we discovered a tiny paper scrap of her childish handwriting which he had kept for fifty years.
As I grew older, it was felt that the best thing to do with me was to teach me to read as quickly as possible, and so I turned up at school book-ready. This was not popular. I was disbelieved,and had to endure being taught to read all over again,to keep up appearances. Fortunately a new teacher arrived; Mrs Hindle,who released me from "Janet and John" (they never did anything faintly interesting), and let me loose in the library,where I stayed put for years. There was a library in Fazackerley,to which I was passionately attached. I have never forgotten the utter thrill of being allowed four cardboard tickets in municipal pale green.I am a library fiend. I consider them to be the knees of the bee. I do not approve of closing them,although I don't much care for the current sort,with their horrid paperback self-help books and leaflets about chlamydia. If I ever become indecently rich, I would spend time and money recklessly recreating 1950's-style libraries throughout the land. They would have stern but twinkly librarians with proper cardigans, who had read all the books,and would "Shush" those degraded souls who thought that a library was a good place in which to have a row,or bring their children for a picnic.Or to expose themselves to me under cover of a newspaper,which has happened more than once, I may say. These days my sight is so appalling that I would have to get illegally close to see whatever it was they were pointing at so eagerly,and then request the flasher to "Hang on a minute while I get my other glasses out of my bag.."
It is a sad fact that I am an old person,and as such, no longer a redhead. I am a grey-haired hag,or would be,if I allowed it. Which I shall not. Some ladies can live with going grey or white, and indeed there has been a tiny trend in that direction of late. Brave female columnists have been revealing their roots all over the Sunday Supplements.I am not doing that,anymore than I am going to buy elasticated slacks. I have been messing around with different coloured hair since I was fifteen. There have been some accidents, yes indeed. And they WERE all my fault. I was once laughed at by a van-load of punks when I was standing at a bus-stop in Leeds in 1970-something, because I had decided to go blonde by dint of pouring bleach over my head in the bath. The resultant shade was luminous and could be seen from Mars. When I was a hair model,some time later, I was obliged to sign a contract which stated that no-one else would touch my hair.My stylist , and consequently great friend Jon had added "Especially You!"in red felt tip at the bottom. So the red hair came from my Dad's side and the other stuff is all my Mum's fault. My own GB is harmlessly brown of hair.So far.But I have caught him casting sideways glances at my Mother's L'Oreal, Champagne Blonde,so I imagine one morning I shall find him meddling with streaks. She,at eighty-eight,considers herself too young not to dye.
Mum had really wanted puppies, and was only superficially resigned to motherhood. She plumped for the swanky private nursing home on the grounds that she was only going to have this one baby, and she was damn well going to have it in luxury. She worked up to the day of my birth, and at the very last had to be coaxed down off a ladder where she was energetically painting the hall ceiling,and bundled off to Crosby in a taxi. A tactless Nursing Sister gave my Mother the encouraging pre-natal snippet of information that "if anything goes wrong,we will always save the baby". "Bugger the baby, I can always have another one" retorted my dear Mamma,thus going down in history as the least maternal woman since Norma Bates. She was in a bad mood because she couldn't paint her toenails,and in an even worse one later that day. "36 stitches!.." one of her favourite rants began "That's EMBROIDERY!"
She was in the nursing home for a week ( how unlike the modern fashion for booting you and baby out into the street five minutes after the gore has been washed off ), and became rather fond of the Seafield House nuns, exchanging cards at Easter and Christmas for many years after her stitches had come out.
The wild black hair went after a month or so, and it appeared that I was a ginger, like my Dad. He was thrilled, and carted me about attached to his suit jacket like a bawling boutonierre. My father had had a little sister,who died of meningitis when she was seven. Doreen,according to my Mum, had been an adorable child with long red ringlets, and was never spoken of at home. When my father died, we discovered a tiny paper scrap of her childish handwriting which he had kept for fifty years.
As I grew older, it was felt that the best thing to do with me was to teach me to read as quickly as possible, and so I turned up at school book-ready. This was not popular. I was disbelieved,and had to endure being taught to read all over again,to keep up appearances. Fortunately a new teacher arrived; Mrs Hindle,who released me from "Janet and John" (they never did anything faintly interesting), and let me loose in the library,where I stayed put for years. There was a library in Fazackerley,to which I was passionately attached. I have never forgotten the utter thrill of being allowed four cardboard tickets in municipal pale green.I am a library fiend. I consider them to be the knees of the bee. I do not approve of closing them,although I don't much care for the current sort,with their horrid paperback self-help books and leaflets about chlamydia. If I ever become indecently rich, I would spend time and money recklessly recreating 1950's-style libraries throughout the land. They would have stern but twinkly librarians with proper cardigans, who had read all the books,and would "Shush" those degraded souls who thought that a library was a good place in which to have a row,or bring their children for a picnic.Or to expose themselves to me under cover of a newspaper,which has happened more than once, I may say. These days my sight is so appalling that I would have to get illegally close to see whatever it was they were pointing at so eagerly,and then request the flasher to "Hang on a minute while I get my other glasses out of my bag.."
It is a sad fact that I am an old person,and as such, no longer a redhead. I am a grey-haired hag,or would be,if I allowed it. Which I shall not. Some ladies can live with going grey or white, and indeed there has been a tiny trend in that direction of late. Brave female columnists have been revealing their roots all over the Sunday Supplements.I am not doing that,anymore than I am going to buy elasticated slacks. I have been messing around with different coloured hair since I was fifteen. There have been some accidents, yes indeed. And they WERE all my fault. I was once laughed at by a van-load of punks when I was standing at a bus-stop in Leeds in 1970-something, because I had decided to go blonde by dint of pouring bleach over my head in the bath. The resultant shade was luminous and could be seen from Mars. When I was a hair model,some time later, I was obliged to sign a contract which stated that no-one else would touch my hair.My stylist , and consequently great friend Jon had added "Especially You!"in red felt tip at the bottom. So the red hair came from my Dad's side and the other stuff is all my Mum's fault. My own GB is harmlessly brown of hair.So far.But I have caught him casting sideways glances at my Mother's L'Oreal, Champagne Blonde,so I imagine one morning I shall find him meddling with streaks. She,at eighty-eight,considers herself too young not to dye.
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