Donald Trump and I
There is one quality in Donald Trump I admire. Very much. And no, I am not taking the mickey or the piss out of him. Seriously. It's his hair. Or rather the way he feels about his hair.
I think it must be the world's longest comb-over. There's some that say it is down to his waist at night and in the morning has to be flipped under/over/under five or six times to make it rest so massively on top of his head. And sometimes the hair spray doesn't hold it all together and a wind takes it in twists and turns around his shoulders and leaves him with a high forehead; by high I mean it goes back to the crown of his head. And all this blondy-white growth then tumbles hither and yon around his neck. Publicly.
And no, I never laugh at him and his hirsute obsession. Because it takes enormous chutzpah to face the derision of the world. And to carry on, and on, and on with the incredible management of your hair in the face of such mockery. He knows how everyone feels and he bloody well carries on and he's a millionaire who could shave his head or wear a wig or get hair-plugs or even tattoo his skull.
It's like his hair is a beloved pet he is going to honour and respect and downright love. For ever.
What brought this on? you might well ask. Well I'm with The Donald on hair. I am the only woman I know over sixty who has long hair. People (usually other women) don't know what to make of me and it. Seriously. It can irritate them. Much like The Donald's crop.
Isn't it a nuisance? Yeah, sometimes.
It must kill you to shampoo it? Yeah, it's a bit of work alright.
Why don't you cut it? It's not time.
Now everything else about Mr. Trump I just about despise, his politics, his racism, his misogyny, his prejudices.
But he and I sing from the same songbook when it comes to our hair.