A Curious Conceit
The photo above was taken at your grandson Luke’s Christening. He’s now eleven, I think? It’s your Mum [my dearest ‘Mrs B’], then Bronwyn your niece, your brother Eamonn, his wife Zita, and you holding Luke.
Your hair was really long and you had a ponytail. Yourself and Jason both dislike paying good money to have your hair cut, but you did get it cut quite a while before you began to work for Fanagans – I really liked it. The only thing about the ponytail was that it would tickle my face if we were asleep facing the same way.
When you put your suit on in the evening and got ready to go to work, I’d look at you and think: he’s the most handsome man I have ever seen. I’d make sure you kissed me before you left – overcoming the occasional protestation that you hadn’t brushed your teeth which I didn’t care about. And I got my kiss.
Wonder what it would be like to just let your hair go grey, especially for a woman. I’ve seen women look great with their natural colour. Men always look better undyed.
I never meant to start colouring my hair until I got sunstroke doing a gig with you and Ruff Cutt on a flatbed truck at some rodeo or something.
I didn’t have a hat and had to leave the stage, ending up face-down on the back seat of the Lincoln, my head out the door, puking and feeling dreadful. Then I had this kind of knacker-orange colour on the top bit of my hair! so I bought some Sun-In and bleached it more. Reckoned it’d hide any grey and, as we were living in California and the sun shone every day, it did all the work for me. Lazy arse.
Then it started to go green-ish. Actually, I’m with you on the hair salon thing: I dislike going. In Peter Mark’s one day yer woman said I’d be there for two-and-half to three hours, and I was out the door like a bullet. I’d rather be lying on the couch with my book and a beer. Seriously.
As I say, my darling, a curious conceit – but not a major life decision.