Glowing with the Light

Been looking through my albums and what calamitous joy some of the pictures are..

In some I resemble a little boy scouting around for a tanner, in others, a wet bitch queen roaming around for peasants to feed on, but this picture is my favourite.

The hot mama hair was considerably bigger and more ballsy than my usual skimpy Pixie affair and looked indeed deceptively darker than it really was. But yes I love this pic. So enamoured am I with this excellent photo that I've decided to stop the shearing, so no more Glo the shorn poet, from now on, Glo the bouffant blogger.

For fifty odd years I have had naturally brown hair, but not now, the old grey mare has galloped in, riding roughly through my locks leaving for dead my once warm nutty mane. However, it never looks grey when I have a photo taken and I've spent many a minute wondering why... Mr H's mantra is "It's all about lighting dear". Apparently, according to him, it's to do with ferocious light bulbs. In some pics he says I look French and earthy in others pale, wan. Very English Rose.

When I'm forced to go outside for a shoot, my hair sometimes scares me, because when I flick through the pics I see tons of old age stuff wiping out almost all of my girlie brownie bits, but I take comfort from the fact that as my complexion lightens due to horrid middle-age, having fairer hair will suit me.

And even though grey is associated with sticks and death, I won't dye it, can't bear the thought of wasting money on chemicals, which, I fear, will only emphasize my deteriorating face. No, I will instead, play wickedly in Mother Nature's nest of platinum.

And so as dogs bark and cats scream I'll sit on the edge of my bed flying a silver brush through my silver hair. I shall then, after washing with plain soap, cloud my face with shell pinks and dusky browns and cavort around town in clothes of languorous lilac and cock red
I'll wear black only if I'm in for the night.

Which reminds me I recently bought a dirty little black dress.