While the rest of me ages comfortably and my brain matures to a fine cheese, the hair, ohhh the hair, the hair seems to be marching to a different genome. It is the despair of hairdressers and a barometer by which my mood can be measured. If I am harrassed it stands up straight, no really it does. Which makes my family laugh a lot, so that bit’s ok. It shows no sign of despair unless a hairdresser gets close to it, when it sulks and goes limp and stringy. It will not take dye. (I tried to dye it purple). It will not tolerate bleach and falls out at the mere whisper of such a thing, which is bad because it’s dark brown and beginning to look silly on a person of my vintage – I would like a softer, lighter colour. I think it is just different to the rest of me.
I think it might be an alien!