barely happy

Barely Happy

I loved my hair once. In the 1980's. Full of back-comb and hairspray and feather. Like Lady Di. It was my crowning-glory. At least that's what my mother said. It defined me. When I first shaved it off it wasn't for any noble cause. Or to draw the sympathetic looks one receives as a bald-headed woman of a certain age and status. I just did it. In front of the kitchen sink, with a draining-board full of dark green Denby. Reflected in the double-glazing that overlooked the herb garden. It was liberating. Like climbing alone and naked between crisp clean thousand thread-count bedding. And farting. Of course there was reaction. Speculation. Offers of support. Obviously I wasn't of 'right-mind'. Obviously. One doesn't just shave one's head. Does one? Not in my position. But in truth, I was the happiest I'd ever known.


fiction by
Susan Moffat

image by
Jayne Morley