Victoria Hawkins' Week: A bad hair spray

LAWKS. Whatever will I do when the Dreaded Daughter finally departs these shores? It used to be that it was me watching out for her but things are fast changing.

Victoria Hawkins

LAWKS. Whatever will I do when the Dreaded Daughter finally departs these shores?

It used to be that it was me watching out for her but things are fast changing. While I now have to give Mr H a quick daily inspection before he leaves the house - checking for shaving foam in the ears, flies done up, matching socks, non dribbled on tie etc. etc. - perhaps it's time to start taking my own medicine.

My worst problem is that without my specs on I can't see. Like I can't read which bottle is shampoo and which one is conditioner when I wash my hair in the shower (and have you ever tried wearing glasses in a shower, not only do you look particularly stupid but they get wet and consequently defeat the object) so what I wash with is sometimes a bit touch and go on its own.

As for shaving my legs or underarms, when a great deforestation takes place nowadays I simply have to make mad stabs and lunges at where I think the outcrops have grown and then tidy up any stragglers and mop up all the blood lost later on.

Well to be fair today had started off as a bad hair day. We - well, I - were/was already running late (as my place seems to be third, and last, in the queue when it comes to the shower rota). This morning was frankly a toss up between washing my hair, which had gone flat and needed serious TLC, or adopting emergency measures. Emergency measures won as there was no time to dry it as we'd also got to fit in an early visit to the doctor's surgery on the way to work, so that she who must be obeyed could be stabbed with her final inoculations before setting off on her big trip around the globe.

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Anyway I thought that if I poofed up the tresses a bit and gave it a bit of a spray the barnet would do one more day. That was until she yelled: “Mum, what the hell are you putting on your head?” making me jump almost up into the roofspace.

Unfortunately being as blind as a geriatric bat when I'd reached for what was supposed to be hairspray, it wasn't. I'd grabbed a can of underarm deodorant which was now billowing around the bathroom like an escaped genie and fast settling on my head.

So this time it was she checking me over like a mother gibbon before she finally allowed me out of the house but at least my head smelled quite nice.

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