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 bobs, they are really just the same bobs as 99 per cent of all the other mothers on the school run have got. The bob is the Birkenstock of mum dos: practical and comfortable and available in a range of seasonal colours.
I wanted to dye it platinum blonde and have an under-shave and 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. They already look the other way when I wear a leather jacket sometimes, in case I might be an actual prostitute, prowling the grounds for a punter.
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 do wears off, we arrive at the bob by a disappointing process of elimination. Long? Too much like hard work. May also accidentally attract some members of the opposite sex. 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?