On Locks and Bobs

And so, I keep thinking about the bob that I never had. The bob that I'd first aspired to mould the mess of quasi-hay that grows at the top of my head into something I once seen on this gorgeous, confident girl grooving to Pet Shop Boys at a Fire tea dance in 1994 - the days when baby doll dresses + doc mart's combo actually worked.

So yes, I have been deliberating about the said bob for more than a decade and even though I have been known to go into short bouts of analysis about things that matter to me, the bob is one that has withstood the tests of time.

The reasons are simple. I am a creature of habit and wearing a bob may suit me for a couple of days but at the end, I weigh the inconvenience of not having tresses to tie back into a neat ponytail when I am working out, when I am doing my dance routine. I think about the lack of length to curls my fingers around and play with whilst I ponder over an issue, or having the option of sweeping my crowning glory back into a neat little bun when the testosterones take charge and command that I dress to feel sleek and professional.

The boring black-brown locks that I own may have stuck with me for more than half my life but they epitomise me - they curl in all directions when I am stressed at work, they tame to perfection when I am in cold climate and they bounce into happy curls of anticipation whenever I am all dolled up for a big do.

My locks define me. The bob, is still a distant acquaintance.