Succumbed like a sucker to the call of the bottle blondes and headed for Sale Moor where Dr Donna sat me down and made me over. Now if I was master of my self and in control of my own destiny/identity I would be able to rise above sun kissed streaks and flaunt my steely grey fronds with the best of them.
My hair is grey, accept, forgive, move on.
But I don’t accept. I look like a crusty cadaver in the raw. Nothing sexy or glam about my crowning glory. Eli pretends he doesn’t mind, but I catch his wandering eye at breakfast peering at my Mallen streak.
Freak, moi? I’m a sham. Not real. And as Slave to Self I jump on the peroxide band wagon and let Donna wave her magic wand. While she’s at it she fills me in on her latest conquests. A suicidal dope from Gatley is stringing her along, she’s monitoring it, but hasn’t the strength to master her spiralling free fall. While I bake she shears a bloke in an anorak. She asks him about his Christmas. He doesn’t answer. I look over to see him slumped and sobbing in the chair. His wife died on Christmas Day, he thinks of the flu, but he seems confused. Donna looks at me. She suggests he attends the Spiritual Church around the corner, as it might be his wife was an angel.
I bury myself back in Hello, and let her carry on digging.
In a while I am going to tell you about my son and his lunch invitation. It marks the end of a manic, mammoth text fest, and involves a girl he met on his university ski trip. As we sit around the table for supper I give him a pep talk about manners. He has a tendency when eating of sticking his elbows out at right angles, shoulder height and carving his food like a trucker on speed. Manners maketh man.