The truth about my hair

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.