The Alice Band

I have been growing my hair. I say this like it's a proactive thing, like, if I didn't exert myself in some way, like adding Miracle-Gro to my shampoo, it would stay the same length. It's not so much that I have actively been promoting its growth. I just stopped doing the sorts of things that would keep it short. Like, having it cut. I didn't stop cutting it for any particularly positive reason either. I went to have my hair cut one day, sat in the chair awaiting the deft ministrations of G (I have no idea whatsoever what G stands for - everybody calls him G and I am far too British to ask him, so G it remains, and we have to hope I will never find myself in a situation where I am called on to furnish anyone with his full name). Anyway, I am waiting for G to put the last touches to a blue rinse for an octegenarian in the neighbouring seat - G is in no way a trendy coiffeur, he runs a fairly basic operation tucked into a dusty corner of a local gym, and I go to him periodically for cut and colour, neither of which requires either explanation or finesse. If it's a cut he hauls out the scissors, and if it's a touch up, then his tool is a paintbrush and a bowl of black goo, which stings my roots. As he finishes up with his aged client, a picture flashes into my mind of my elder sister. My sister died of cancer a year ago, but this was about 18 months ago and at that time she had finished her chemotherapy and her hair had fallen out completely. She had curly hair like mine, a slightly lighter brown and not as thick but still, similar enough for me to picture her head with its tufts of hair beginning to reappear after the toxic assault of her cancer-nuking drug regime, and I thought to myself, no. I cannot cut my hair. I'm lucky to have it. I apologise to G and leave. And have been back only once or twice in the intervening time, to have my grey roots doused. Otherwise it's been left well alone and now there is loads and loads of it. Its a bit of a culture shock, having long hair. All sorts of issues, like how it slaps you in the face when it's windy outside. Or it sticks to your lip gloss. Or you have to wear brasher earrings otherwise no point in wearing earrings at all as nobody can see them. Or, you turn over in your sleep and get a mouthful of the stuff. In the Summer it's unbearably hot under my copious locks, and in Winter it's toasty warm. The biggest perk is that I can accessorise it. I invested in multiple scrunchies from American Apparel - lots of them, each one a different acid colour - and I play around with them, but unfortunately if there is one issue with curly hair it is that no scrunchie will tame it. Only on film sets do curls tease themselves into perfectly formed tendrils. Mine, if tied back, takes on the form of a rainforest after the storm. And as a keen baker, this is proving a major liability. I don't mind finding your hair in my food, says one of my friends.  At least I know where it came from.  But, he continues tactfully, not everyone may feel the same way. I heave myself off to a department store to investigate the alternatives, and it is there that I encounter The Alice Band. These are loathsome things. They come in every conceivable shape, material, colour and size, but their basic function is the same: to draw your hair back from your face, while simultaneously ageing your look by about 50 years. I try thin ones and thick ones, wooden and fabric, metal and plastic, sparkly and velvet ones, turban ones and ones that look like fascinators, and ones that I cannot believe have not been banned for their potential as offensive weapons.  I pick one out, pay for it, take it home and put it on. It is thin, with spikes that hold my hair back the way an iron gate with anti-pigeon border might.  Within ten minutes, my temples start to ache. My hair starts to protest, then to attempt a Colditz style breakout. I sift flour, nudging my Alice Band away from my temples with my shoulders. Then I shift it an inch with my hands, getting flour bits trapped between its teeth. Aaargh. Then it falls forward (hair having achieved a partial success, a bit like The Great Escape). At the same time one of my kids drops a bag of frozen peas on the floor by accident and hundreds disappear under the fridge. I turn around. Survey the situation. Take off the alice band, stretch it flat, and poking it under the fridge, retrieve the peas. My bid for hair-free baking products has failed, spectacularly - nothing for it but a proper chef's hat, which will be much more fun to wear. Meantime, I need to download an application form to patent the World's first ever Subterranean Pea Retriever.