Clam Bake

I was in the hairdresser's on Saturdaymorning getting my roots to resemble the natural colour of the rest of my hair (why is it that a "natural look" costs so much and only lasts about 4 weeks or combed the right way 5) There was a lady there who was obviously quite confused, she had left her house with only her purse, leaving her house keys and handbag at home on the kitchen table. The hairdresser was great with her and soon worked out how to sort out getting her home and leaving her with her dignity. I thought I recognised the lady's face and I did recognise the look in her eyes which is a feature of people dealing with the early stages of Dementia.

Her daughter arrived to collect her in a flurry of the salmon pink raincoat that is the uniform of those who embrace middle age with gusto. I didn't for a minute recognise her but then I did, she was the girl at school who had it all; well I least I thought she had it all. She was very, very pretty and with long blonde hair and the whitest of white ankle socks; I wondered if she had a brand new pair for every day, nobody could get their socks that white, they positively glowed as did she. She had it all in my book, slim, long blonde hair, peaches and cream skin and clever to boot. She also had the best looking boy in the school who I lusted after from a distance - they were an item from they were 14 and were still an item 36 years later.

She was like Sandy out of Grease before John revolting gave her a crash course in rocker chick couture and she was still like Sandy out of Grease except that Sandy's blonde flip was now a sensible silver bob and her drindl was replaced by a navy pleated skirt just hovering above the knee with "candle glow" tights and navy court shoes. In truth, her poor old mum, albeit a bit doo lally, was more fashionably dressed in a nice linen skirt and matching blouse. Ok, I currently resembled a crack house christmas tree and was only a year or so younger, there was a lot more separating us, she seemed to have added the trappings of 20 or so years before she had lived the 20 odd years. I don't try to dress like a 20 something but I don't feel the need to join the the blessed legion of polyester just yet. My hair is best described as the explosion in the mattress factory look - my colleagues get jumpy if I wear it flat - according to my managers they think the flat hair means I am going to deliver bad news.

Seems the girl who had it all is now the silver, sensible-shod primary carer for the mother who managed to get her ankle socks to glow and the fat kid with the lank hair, spots and national health glasses who was lucky to have a pair of socks at all, hasn't sucumbed to the salmon pink raincoat, and while she doesn't forget her roots, she does ensure that they remain true to her ends.