Of course in my naivety I had failed to understand what would be involved. We didn't have a hair dryer at home, so the chances of having curling tongs were nil. No blow drying, no curling, just a soggy mess after the first wash. I lived with it for five months, right up to that one defining moment in November 1978 and the youth club incident.
Those of you who have been reading the blog from the start will know of my shame, but for newcomers I will repeat it.
In November 1978 I started to a youth club about a mile from my house. It was the usual teenage stuff, table tennis, dancing, general "hanging out" drinking coffee. It was during the second or third week that a lad, the same age as me, showed an interest. We spent the evening having a laugh and when the evening was over he went out of his way to walk me home. At the bottom of my quiet cul-de-sac he gave me a quick kiss on the lips. Nothing untoward, just a peck. We agreed we'd see each other next Friday at the youth club.
When I got back to the house all hell broke loose. My mother had been on her way to look for me and seen me with the boy. I was screamed at, hit and right royally told off. The reason for her hate, he was black (to use her words, I'm not sure what word is currently acceptable). I was to never go to the youth club again.
The following week I took my savings and went to the hairdressers. It was the first time I had used my hair as a self-inflicted punishment. It was all cut off.
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| Servalan courtesy of BBC |
