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)

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Monsters - Hallowe'en

 

They arrived in small groups or just pairs. We heard the giggles and the shuffling before the knock on the door sent us hurrying into the hall. We were ready. I was, as always once a year, the witchiest witch and this time I had the pale faced Wednesday Addams helping for a little while until it was time for her to join the others outside.  Our first visitors, Harry Potter with his friend, Hermione, had escaped Hogwarts to come scavenging and helped themselves from my cauldron of appealing sweets and chocolate.  Scary monsters and super-creeps (sing) turned up in day-glo and luminescent colours, all looking wonderful – some people have amazing artistic skills and come into their own at Hallowe’en. I always do my best to get into the swing of it. Years ago I worked at our local infant school and all the children and some parents knew me. I didn’t recognise them as ghosts, vampires and spooks, but they knew me well and laughed at my witch alter-ego. Now they bring their own children to knock on my door. I’m obviously older than I thought. Not all of our visitors looked like monsters. A group of very well dressed young men, aged around nine or ten hoped I was having a pleasant evening as they took items from the cauldron. Their grown-ups waited at the end of the drive. The boys were amused at me being dressed up.

“I’m a witch, you should be scared!”

“Nothing scares us, we’re Peaky Blinders.”

Well, that was me told. Fighting to keep my face straight, I returned to my witch duties indoors. They surely weren’t old enough to watch Peaky Blinders? They certainly looked the part, though, and no, they didn’t scare me. I would have turned them into frogs, or something.  The grandchildren came back with their tubs nearly overflowing. I tried to cadge a few bits, but no-one was sharing – poor Nanna. Before they went home I had my usual moan about lollipops being dangerous things - I bin them out of sweets multipacks - and I made my usual speech about brushing teeth properly to keep their mouths healthy and Peggy, the tooth fairy happy. Hallowe’en is done for another year. By eight o’clock my cauldron was empty so the pumpkin fairy lights were switched off and removed from the front window, real pumpkins rescued from the rain and I swapped my witch clothes for comfy pyjamas.

The scariest monsters are the demons that live within us. Actual people who caused trouble, problems or any form of upset that we can’t shake off. The monster isn’t there all the time, perhaps, but lurking in the background ready to pounce when spirits are low, we feel tired, or it’s the middle of the night when our worries are magnified. They might bite now and again, but don’t let them win.

Let’s stay upbeat with  Roger McGough and Dr JCC,

First Day at School

A millionbillionwillion miles from home
Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)
Why are they all so big, other children?
So noisy? So much at home they
Must have been born in uniform
Lived all their lives in playgrounds
Spent the years inventing games
That don't let me in. Games
That are rough, that swallow you up.

And the railings.
All around, the railings.
Are they to keep out wolves and monsters?
Things that carry off and eat children?
Things you don't take sweets from?
Perhaps they're to stop us getting out
Running away from the lessins. Lessin.
What does a lessin look like?
Sounds small and slimy.
They keep them in the glassrooms.
Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.

I wish I could remember my name
Mummy said it would come in useful.
Like wellies. When there's puddles.
Yellowwellies. I wish she was here.
I think my name is sewn on somewhere
Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.
Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.

Roger McGough


I Married a Monster from Outer Space

The milky way she walks around
All feet firmly off the ground
Two worlds collide, two worlds collide
Here comes the future bride
Gimme a lift to the lunar base
I wanna marry a monster from outer space

I fell in love with an alien being
Whose skin was jelly – whose teeth were green
She had the big bug eyes and the death-ray glare
Feet like water wings – purple hair
I was over the moon – I asked her back to my place
Then I married the monster – from outer space

The days were numbered – the nights were spent
In a rent free furnished oxygen tent
When a cyborg chef served up moon beams
Done super rapid on a laser beam
I needed nutrition to keep up the pace
When I married the monster from outer space

We walked out – tentacle in hand
You could sense that the earthlings would not understand
They’d go.. nudge nudge …when we got off the bus
Saying it’s extra-terrestial – not like us
And it’s bad enough with another race
But fuck me… a monster …from outer space

In a cybernetic fit of rage
She pissed off to another age
She lives in 1999
With her new boyfriend – a blob of slime
Each time I see her translucent face
I remember the monster from outer space

Dr John Cooper Clarke


Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Hurly Burly - No Mall & No Builders!

As far as possible, I will avoid any commotion, hurly-burly and busy places, especially since I retired from work. Sometimes things happen and I find myself somewhere I’d rather not be with no immediate escape and I have to grin and bear it.

With the exception of Springfield Mall, Virginia – going back many years when such places were new to me – I don’t like shopping malls. Warm and dry on a cold, wet day they might be, but bustling and noisy does not give me a pleasant shopping experience. My friend and I once got lost trying to find a way out of Manchester Arndale. We rushed one way, then another, back-tracked, or thought we were, and eventually asked a security guard. By then we weren’t bothered which exit, we’d find our bearings outside and we did. When our daughter was about thirteen she wanted to go to the Trafford Centre for her birthday treat, shopping, lunch there, everything possible. We had to do it. Luckily, she loved it and enjoyed spending her birthday money, having the promised lunch, but it was all in the over-crowded, loud hullabaloo that made me want to scream. I might be the only person who doesn’t like the Trafford Centre. I can live with that. I would probably hate Springfield these days.

It doesn’t stop at shopping malls. I can’t cope with having workmen in at home. Running repairs are alright and our usual heating engineer is very welcome when it’s time to service the boiler. Workmen with a capital W means builders and a team of them, taking over and making a mess, making a noise, either voices or machinery. As the family grew and more space was needed, it seemed like a good idea to have extensions here, there and everywhere which meant weeks of disruption. The end results were worth it. The house we move into will be staying exactly as we find it.

This Dr John Cooper Clarke poem reminds me of being lost in the hurly-burly of a pre-Christmas Arndale Centre,

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

Daily Bugle – Front Page News

A drunken posse on a booze cruise

Swear me in I got nothing to lose

High five – low morale

Trouble aye trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

I heard about it at the Taj Mahal

I nearly choked on me Taka Dahl

I quizzed Chief Wiggum and he said, “Waal

Cuff ‘em boys – trouble at the Mall”

 

Tripe stand bloody fell over

Its covered the place in a beefy odour

Better take a nosegay pal

Trouble aye trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

Bury my heart at Clinton Cards

Remember me to the old guard

These days you just gotta be hard

Because like they say in this here locale

Trouble aye trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

H & M is full of flunkies

And Tony and Guy couldn’t give a monkey’s

In the dying words of Gore Vidal

‘Appen it’s trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

JCC

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Cosmetic Surgery - Nipped and Tucked

I’m glad to be happy in my own skin. I’m fine with my appearance, it’s what you’d expect for a woman of my age carrying the experiences of my life. The lines on my face belong there, each one earned. My laughter lines, just like the old joke of ‘Nothing is that funny’, I can’t remember who said it. My body, larger than I would like, but I’ll just wear bigger clothes and enjoy my day; carries the scars of necessary surgery, some life-saving, but that’s all fine, too. It’s me. At the moment I really need my sister-in-law. She is a hair-stylist, miles away in Troon. No one else cuts my hair and for almost a year we haven’t been able to meet, so I keep pinning it up out of my way and waiting. When it gets on my nerves I’m all for fashioning my own pixie cut with the kitchen scissors. I won’t. It’s not just my hair, I love her to bits and miss her and the family very much and look forward to a trip to Scotland as soon as we’re allowed.

Appearance is a confidence thing.  Accepting how we look is important to our general well-being, so if something is not right to the point of causing embarrassment or unhappiness and cosmetic surgery can sort it out, that is the way to go.

My family moved about a lot during my childhood. Dad’s job took us to various pubs all over the North West, some short term, and I was used to being the new girl at school. It didn’t bother me too much, until we came to Blackpool in 1965, or thereabouts.  I stood with my teacher facing my new class as she introduced me.

“She’s goofy!” 

A rude boy sitting at the front made everyone laugh and made me very self-conscious for years. The teacher didn’t say anything to him, which I thought was unfortunate, but as time went on I learnt why he had to sit at the front. His appearance was not flawless, he had puffed out cheeks giving him a fat looking face, but he was witty and quite funny. We went to different high schools, but met again by chance many years later at a works ‘do’ where he was the DJ. The rude boy was now a pleasant man with a successful business in entertainment and it was nice to spend a few minutes catching up. I was sad to hear he’d passed away some time ago. He’ll never see the results of my extensive cosmetic dentistry – joke.

A recent photograph of a well-known model without her dental veneers on horrified me. It was just a photo and could have been touched up, but there she was, a mouthful of what looked like good, vital teeth, filed to points to accommodate her dazzling white plastic (acrylic, porcelain, gold-bonded) very expensive smile. Money talks. There isn’t a dentist I know who would risk his / her clinical integrity to perform such treatment on healthy teeth. I wonder how she’ll look at age seventy, eighty and beyond with the ‘Colgate ring of confidence’ or if what is left of each tooth lasts that long.

Lip-fillers and Botox treatment seem to be the fashion, resulting in mask-like faces with an expression of surprise and suckers for lips. I think it’s supposed to slow down the natural aging process, but who knows if it works forever? There’s nothing wrong with growing old gracefully.  A few ‘nipped and tucked’ celebrities out there will disagree with me.

Here’s Dr John Cooper Clarke:

Face Behind the Scream
This case appears to be urgent
Kindly pull the screen
Cosmetic surgeon
The son of Mr Sheen
Is jerry building versions
Of the face behind the scream

The girl who would be beauty queen
Tells the doctor of her dream
In which she reads a magazine
Wearing only cold cream
They call her the face behind the scream

The image he maintains
And the silence he observes
Says it’s worth a little pain
For the figure we both deserve
A cowboy by profession since the age of 17
Whose singular obsession is the face behind the scream

The girl who would be beauty queen
Tells the doctor of her dream
A soiree in the mezzanine
And castanets and tambourines
A careless word and ugly scenes

The doctor knows he’s made for good impressions on demand
The new nose in the neighbourhood was fashioned by these hands
He can do it blindfold, his instruments are clean
A snapshot in his mind holds the face behind the scream

The girl who would be beauty queen
Diamond rivets in her jeans
Wild and with-it even off screen

He then removes the bandage and the odd remaining scab
A flair for fancy language…
The gift of the gab
Hands you a sandwich and applies the vaseline
To show to best advantage the face behind the scream

The girl who would be beauty queen
Tells the doctor of her dream
In which she turns her money green
Finds herself in a funny scene
Cracks up like a shatterproof windscreen

Danke schoen ich liebe dich, I promise not to hurt
A telephone receiver clicks RED ALERT
Whatever you do don’t touch that switch, the doctor goes to work
With his bag of tricks in his limousine
Mugshots from magazines
Face creams and photofits
To fit the face that doesn’t fit
The face behind the scream

The girl who would be beauty queen
Surrounded by the regular team
Of photo brats and coma teens
In bowler hats and brilliantine
Or bold cravats of bottle green
Such a precious little dream
To be taken to extremes
How many times can you be 16
The call her the face behind the scream

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well, Pam x

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