Saggitarian hair

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It was Bridget Jones who started it, the concept of hair having a personality of its own.
Now I've discovered that mine too, is alive. It knows when I'm going out, andwill transform itself, a la Susan in Mr Pratchett, from sleek, cultured style to a mass of frenzied strands, clamouring for the sun in the manner of a strange, creeper-like plant. And yet, in a pre-bedtime faff, it will fall, naturally in wave upon wave of glossy, perfect curls with just a hint of insouciance, as if to say, 'you don't really want to sleep on me, do you?'. Knowing full well I will, and the resulting morning shriek in the mirror will pre-empt diving into the shower to flatten the madness atop my head.

Many have tried to understand what makes the hair react this way, some attribute it to dietary neglect, (as if a surfeit of fresh cream and chocolate can be blamed on poor hair behaviour), still other experts deem the wrong products being used on the hair blameworthy.
I have tried almost every type of spray, gel, mousse and wax on the market, and others that aren't, in the hope of finding something to tame my irredeemable tresses, and all of them fall short. Because I'm worth it? Maybe, but my hair doesn't seem to think so.

Even the glossy magazines, bristling with cuts, styles and dos that would make a trichologist blush offer no source of comfort. Page upon page of - not to put too fine a point on it - uttertly mad hairstyles shriek from the page. 'You too can look like a skewer has been inserted into your head and your coif twisted round it so it looks like a mad porcupine'. My mother always said that there are those who have it and those who pay to have it.

It seems I am the one who pays.

Alas, today seems to be another bad hair day. A single, simple plait has become a twisted shank of knots, wild strays leaping loose at every given opportunity to make me look not unlike Yahoo Serious, but with less poise.

So, in future, when you see the slick ads on the TV, spare a thought for those of us who must turn away from the box and stare folornly in the mirror as we tug resolutely at our Saggitarian hair (hair which does what it damn well pleases) and dream of the day when someone, anyone says 'is she...?'

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