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The Hair Thing

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It was quite a while ago that I realised this funny fact – and it’s rather silly unless you just roll along and have fun with it – the funny fact being that all my favourite people in the world also happen to have hair that I LOVE.*

Take one of my oldest and closest friends, L., who has a lush, straw-coloured mane (it’s embarrassing that most of my favourite people are blonde) of untamed, frizzy waves. They frame her round and smiling face like a golden haze, and are light and airy to the touch, like freshly beaten egg whites.

Or F., whose head holds a generous mass of bouncy, sexy brown curls. For a long time, she tried to control them with various products, until she finally found her vibe around the age of 30, and her hair is now a jazzy tune that dances along to her fearless, businesslike strut.

C.’s hair is incredibly thick and strong, like rays of sunshine gold that could easily lift Harry, Ron, Hermione, and a limp Professor Lockhart out from the Chamber of Secrets. It also gets interestingly bushy, betraying a leonine personality, and occasionally just does whatever the hell it damn well pleases.

Then there’s J., a coworker who’s loveliness is only matched by the loveliness of her hair – cappuccino coloured, with the girliest, flirtiest, softest curls. I’m imagining it’s what the hair of Botticelli’s Venus must be like, and it usually makes me happy just to look at it when I’m at work. (Don’t worry, I’ve told her about my creepy affliction, and she’s perfectly at peace with it.)

And there are many others, of course.

But the best hair of all, the hair that eats all the other hair for breakfast, elevenses, lunch, tea, and supper, is my partner’s. The first time I touched it, I think I actually gasped. I’ve never experienced anything like it before or since, and if there’s anything I could compare it to, it would be the mythical Golden Fleece. (Yes, it’s so special you can only imagine.) It’s quite incredible, really, and rather unfair for a man.

(At the same time, there’s something irresistible about a man with amazing hair. Right? Of course, it could just be me. I don’t know. I’ve heard that some women appreciate men’s bums.)

Anyway, since I made this discovery, I occasionally play a little game with myself when I’m on the tram or in a queue: I inspect people’s hair and wonder whether I’d like their personalities based purely on that fact.  It’s an amusing pastime, if nothing else.


*Just to be clear, I’m not someone who covets great hair, as I’m pretty happy with my own. It’s abundant, strong and has a pleasing, silky appearance that belies its formidable strength and weight Moreover, my hairdresser chops it into a fun bob that looks great and requires only washing and brushing. I have all I could ever want.


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