Feathers - Hair Cut

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.

Here’s Emily Dickinson,

“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.

                           Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

 (Not my photo, chosen for illustration)

Read More

Blue - Let's Read!

 

The best years of my working life were spent in a primary school. That amazing world of the four to seven year olds taught me more than they learnt from me and filled me with a ‘feel good factor’ on most days. Looking back, my reasons for leaving could have been looked into and dealt with. I should have asked. I wish I’d stayed, but I thought I was doing the right thing at the time. I soon realised that the new job was a mistake. It made me unhappy. One lunch time, I sat on a bench in the garden of St John’s church in town – it’s gone now, someone in authority thought it would be nice to take it all away and pedestrianise the whole area with cobble stones – I’d walked past the closed down Syndicate nightclub which I still called the ABC Theatre and Tommy Steele came to mind. I’d seen him there on several occasions. The song ‘Singing the Blues’ was in my head and made me smile in my sorrow as it was exactly how I felt. I had overcome a lot of what life had thrown my way and as I bit into my sandwich and held back tears, I knew I had to overcome this. I was doing my best in difficult circumstances and that lunch time, I felt so upset that I didn’t want to go back to work, but I had to. Over the years I managed to carve a reasonable niche for myself. When I felt a smidgen of a sense of belonging, I realised I’d succeeded, I hadn’t been beaten. I was relieved to retire.

Being retired and having the freedom to do anything I fancy brings joy. Last summer I was happy to be back in my comfort zone, reading stories to groups of Year 2 children at the primary school where I used to work and now attended by my grandchildren.  The afternoon weather was glorious, blue skies and sunshine, so we all sat outside, the children on blankets, adults on chairs. I loved every minute and expressed my thanks to the teacher in charge who had organised it. Covid restrictions had prevented anything like this and reduced school volunteering to zero. There was nothing coming up as far as anyone knew.

Out of the blue, there has been a recent shout out for volunteers to listen to children reading. I put myself forward as soon as I read the email. I’ve been processed through all the necessary checks, got a training meeting lined up and look forward to starting. Things will have moved on from Billy Blue-hat and One, Two, Three and Away, and all the Better Reading resources I used. Whatever happened to Janet and John? I’m ready to learn new methods and anything which helps children to enjoy reading, and if they’re doing it on an iPad or some other screen, it’s better than not doing it at all. With my grandchildren, I’m slowly learning to move with the times and embrace their use of electronic devices. Everything has its purpose, as I found out on one of my baby-sitting adventures.

My poem,

Armed with felt-tips in shades of blue
And green and yellow and red.
Pads of paper, puzzle books, too,
Plenty of fun before bed.

I took along a story book
And some games that they might share,
But they were too involved to look
Said, ‘put them over there.’

They said ‘hello’, the hug, a snatch.
I noticed an obvious glitch,
My baby-sitting is no match
For a new Nintendo Switch.

PMW 2023

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More