Youngest grabs the mane chance for fun

One of the joys of WFH is that you’re always available to your offspring ‘like flies to wanton boys are we to the gods’. Tapping away in the corner of The Room I’m vulnerable to the whims of Youngest as she amuses her way through the day.

“I’ve got a new wig,” she says.

“Just a minute,” I say, not listening cos I’m WORKING.

“You’ll love it,” she says, appearing with a pink bag and grabbing my head. “What? Wait.”

“I’m trying my new wig on you. It’s cool. And I want you to experience the same fun-ness I do of being a different person,” she says, tugging fiercely at my hair.

Cue genuine gasps of pain from me.

“Don’t be silly. Trust me, this is nothing to what you used to do to my head,” she says, inflicting an eye-lifting french plait from crown to tip. Resistance is futile.

“This is already a cool look for you,” she opines, snapping an elastic band on the end of the plait.

“I’m holding you hairstage,” she says. “That’s very good for somebody with dyslexia,” I say.

“That’s not a compliment,” she says. “Wee bit patronising, and speaking about it as if it’s a disability and not an advantage for me.”

She pulls something else out of the bag of delights.

“No way! I’m not wearing an American Tan pop sock on my head. What if I’m taken to hospital?” I say.

“What with, a typing injury?”

On it snaps, with a bit of wrestling around the ears, then finally out of the bag she flourishes The Wig. I’m thinking Leonardo Dicaprio in The Revenant. She’s thinking cascading auburn honey tresses. On it goes, tumbling down my back in long spiral toffee curls.

“Ooooh. I love it,” I say, convinced immediately. I’m like that. “Thank you. Can’t wait to show it off.”

Five minutes in… “It’s a bit itchy and scratchy,” I tell her.

“Want me to take it off?”

“No. No-one’s seen it, and the postie’s been.” “I know. You can give me a lift to work,” she says.

Wait, what happened to me experiencing life as a different person?