The Queen and I

I have something in common with the Queen of England. I have not changed my hairdo—not in eight years.

She has not changed hers far longer than that—not since February 1952, when she ascended the throne.

That’s the downside of being The Queen. If you experiment with various hairdos, all stamps, coins, bank notes, and other country insignia will not look like you. The Queen's person is inviolable, like a logo. You can’t take liberties with it.

My reasons for not changing mine are different. They range from sloth to impatience which, I suspect, come with age.

This seems absurd from someone who used to change hairdos at a drop of a hat. Yup, I’ve tried ‘em all (bob, afro, page boy, pony tail, braids, bun, China doll, frizz, bouffant, etc.).

My one-hairdo life began when I found a hairdresser who talked me into the hairdo I wear today. It coincided with my decision to pursue writing full-time. My children said “You look like a boy,” but I believed my persuasive hairdresser so much that for two years he cut my hair exactly the same way till he upped and ran for other pursuits.

I headed to another beauty parlor where the hairdresser asked how I wanted my hair done. (My last hairdresser didn’t ask, he told!)

I couldn’t summon the energy to suggest a new look. I said, “Same!” and dozed off. Somehow “same” has not been the same. But only I know that.

When I meet friends I haven’t seen for sometime, they exclaim, “You have not changed!”

See, it makes for a simpler life.

I can concentrate on the two things I’d rather be doing—writing by grace and writing about grace (blogging falls under this category), and teaching once or twice a week to spice up the writing.