The LTLP is waiting for me on my return from the market.
“I. Am. Really. Pissed. Off.”
I close the car door warily. This is not an encouraging phrase to hear, first thing on a Saturday and, more to the point, immediately after a visit to the hairdressers. Her hat is pulled down over her ears. We enter the house together.
“She. Has. Fucking. Ruined. It.”
I don’t know what to say. My mind races. On a purely selfish level, I am pissed off that the weekend looks like not being a fun one for me. Like a chess grandmaster, I try to work several moves in advance – is there any, any way that her getting a bad haircut could possibly be twisted to eventually become MY FAULT? I keep my face utterly neutral as I think, but I consider myself safe. I can’t be blamed for this.
I am also a bit weary at the drama-queen nature, as I know it’s not as bad as all that.
She removes her hat. It is as bad as all that. The highlights leap out from her haid with no degree of subtlety, and don’t quite meet in the middle, so she already has quarter-inch roots. She looks like a thirteen year old who’s been trying to doll herself up with her mum’s hair dye, in advance of going into King’s Lynn in order to hang around the shops with her kid.
AM I SMIRKING FOR GOD’S SAKE DON’T SMIRK
“Ummmm. You’re right. It’s disastrous.” What more could I say?
Later, we go into Lynn to buy hair dye. She keeps her hat on.