I did a stupid thing in 1971. Yes, another one. That year
was full of it from start to finish and I’m still embarrassed by some of the
incidents. This is one of them.
I wasn’t happy to be uprooted from my world which was the
pub on the prom, my school, my friends, my nights at the ice-rink and
everything I held dear. I would have done anything to stay and tried a few
ideas, including moving in with a friend so my GCEs wouldn’t be disrupted.
Nothing worked. I wasn’t taken seriously. I was a stroppy teenager. Yes,
indeed, and who is to blame for that? It wasn’t all down to hormones. The
family, such as it was now, moved to another pub in Cheshire. I was the self-conscious
new girl at the local Secondary Modern, a school which I quickly discovered was
taking an alternative path towards the exams than the one I’d been following –
not too closely, I admit, but that wasn’t the point – there were changes
between Lancashire and Cheshire education departments. The National Curriculum
was years away. I soon knew that I was different on a personal level. My new
friends, pleasant and welcoming girls, couldn’t help but nudge each other and
give knowing looks about my embroidered jeans and floaty tops when we met after
school. I don’t know what they thought, but over a short time I toned down a
bit and dressed more like them when I got a Ben Sherman shirt and some two-tone
trousers. I went to the weekly gathering at the town hall where the music was
mod, soul, reggae and everything ‘not my scene’ but I wanted to fit in so I
learnt the Dave and Ansel Collins ‘Double Barrel’ dance. This is the time that
the stupid thing happened. I cut my own hair. I fashioned a feather-cut with
nail scissors, taking it into the nape of my neck, leaving long straggly rats
tails. I’m not a hairdresser, not even close, so the going blonde turned out
hit and miss. No one said anything at home. My friends thought it was ok, even
better after one of them went over a bit that I’d missed. What a mess, is what
it actually was.
At half term I went to London on the train, on my own, to
stay with family who lived in Roehampton. Whether my dad had said anything to
my aunt or whether she just took charge I don’t know, but one of the first
things I remember was being taken to her hairdresser and given the full
treatment of colour, cut and blow. She bought me new clothes back in my own
style and I felt like myself again. During my stay, Dad had been in touch to
see how I was. My aunt gave me the good news that we were leaving Cheshire and
returning to Blackpool to live in a house. Another first.
It was good to be me again with my Moody Blues and Rolling
Stones and leave my hair alone for the properly cut feathers to grow out. I
learnt something from those few months, ‘To thine own self be true’. It didn’t stop me doing stupid things,
though.
I kept in touch with those friends for a few years and I
remember them fondly whenever I hear ‘Double Barrel’. I don’t think my ankles
are up for the dance, sadly.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Thanks for reading, Pam x
2 comments:
Haven't we all hacked at our own hair and then regretted it? Almost a rite of passage. I don't think mine was ever feathery, more ratty!
I always enjoy reading your recollections of those teenage years.
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