Alex and I have both had our long hair cut off into bobs recently. Hers is hipper than mine – a bit shorter, more Agyness Deyn. I’m calling it a Racy Intellectual bob.
I’m telling myself mine is a boho-bob, like that Sienna Miller’s, but really it’s just a normal boring bob that looks a big old mess, because I have the actual same hair as Worzel Gummidge.
The point is, however we may dress up our new hair cuts, they are really just the same bobs as all the other mothers on the school run have. The bob is the Birkenstock of mum dos: practical and comfortable and available in a range of seasonal colours.
I wanted to dye mine platinum blonde and have an under-shave, do those little tram-tracks on one side. It’s a look I notice that for SS15, Sweaty Betty is calling, in all seriousness, ‘Spiritual Warrior’. But my kids are at prep school, where they wear blazers and have a drawing room, and people are actually called Hermione. I can’t rock up for match tea as a spiritual warrior. Parents would run screaming from the pitch, smashing the Emma Bridgewater serveware to smithereens as they fled.
So I went for a bob instead. Same as we all do. Because once we wake up from the daze of the first few years, and begin to make the effort not to go out of the house wearing only some sick, we all decide we fancy a change. “I fancy a change” we say to the hairdresser, who couldn’t be less interested in what we fancy, and knows already that we are leaving with a bob.
And once the momentary thrill of imagining oneself with this cure-all, changed hair wears off, we arrive at the bob by a disappointing process of elimination. Long? Too much like hard work. Shoulder length? Meh. Shoulder length with some layers, and maybe a fringe? Bit of a dogs dinner. Short? Maybe a bit asymmetrical to show you’ve still got it? You might as well hang up your rubber gloves and wear a t-shirt saying No Eggs Here.
So you go for a bob because, well, it’s all that’s left. Anyone for match tea?
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