Not unlike the Beatles, every day I wake up, get out of bed, drag a comb across my head. But it still happens.
If I treat myself to a bath or shower, it doesn’t happen. But, that means having to wash my extensive and somewhat beautiful head of hair. This is a task normally undertaken for me by two or more of my handmaids, and is a bit of a palaver, to be honest.
So, there are days when I slum it a bit and wake up, get out of bed, and drag a comb across my head, and don’t wash my hair. Then it happens.
All day I suffer. I can’t get it to sit right, to lay down, to stop sticking out. I get a ‘cowlick’
There. I’ve said it.
I suffer from a tuft of my hair sticking out the wrong way. It does it all day. All day long, I sport a bloody ‘cowlick’.
People ask me if a seagull has dropped the contents of its bottom on my head.
I know what they mean.
Finally though, I now know why. And that cow is going to be so punished.