Some of you will understand this poem! If you do, don't give your age away!
A BEE IN MY BONNET!
Do you recall the Beehive? No, not the one with bees?
But the 1960s hair-do, requiring a lot of 'tease'!
My hair was always whispy and body-less and fine,
But Beehives were the fashion so, of course, I made it mine!
But the struggle and the anguish simply can't be overstated!
The visits to the salon which were frequent and much-hated;
The sitting in the chair as pretty hairdressers tut-tutted,
And their remarks, so critical, which made me feel quite gutted.
'If Modom had more hair' they'd say, 'We'd be able to produce
Something elegant and smart, but, in your case, what's the use?'
'I must look like my friends!' I'd cry 'A poor workman blames his tools!
Modom wants a Beehive! Supply it! Them's the rules!
The customer is always right! So go ahead! Beehive me!
Be creative! Something grand is what you must contrive me!'
And so they duly went ahead, with shampoo, and with rinse,
And a lot of other 'condiments' I haven't noticed since!
Once washed, my little bit of hair lay limply on my head,
Until the wretched rollers made it wide and high instead.
Then came the awful dryer, and a scalp all burning hot,
But a Beehive would be my reward so I didn't mind a jot.
Back-combing! Is it done these days? It's a wonder we survived it!
But hair demanded torture as the hairdresser Beehived it!
The hair was, first, teased one way, and then, as Modom cursed,
The whole revolting process was immediately reversed.
Now all the in-between hair was tangled, knotted, matted,
And the net-result was Modom looking very woolly-hatted!
Now the clever part! A few stray strands, left longer and still pliable,
Were spread out over all the mess and made to look reliable.
Indeed, when it was smoothed and glossed, it really looked a treat,
Like some enormous hairy egg, quite good enough to eat.
Now for the spray and do not think I'm talking of a puff.
Great streams of it for evermore it seemed were not enough!
At last came the displaying, with triumphant shouts of glee,
And the most excited person there was Beehived little me!
I was modern, I was 'with it',( though we didn't use that phrase.)
I paid the pretty hairdresser and heaped great songs of praise.
I peered then, at the outside world, was it a little wet?
If so, I'd need the plastic bonnet one dared not forget!
I'd hurry home before the nasty elements could play
Fast and loose with my great hair, and ruin my whole day.
There followed then a week of care, of lying stiff in bed,
Making sure that nothing spoilt the glory on my head!
( I didn't need a 'headache', my hair had other uses;
I didn't need to parrot any other old excuses!)
Of course, I didn't wash it! Just the lightest surface brush,
And a patting into place of all the bits that I might crush.
But, inevitably, bits began to flop and droop and sag!
By the ending of the week I was a hide-in-the-cupboard hag!
Come Saturday I'd have to go through all the whole routine,
So that I could strut about as the local Beehive Queen!
Was ever there a torture so designed to lay us low?
Did everybody suffer as I did I want to know!
My hair today is flat and fine, and 'doing its own thing'.
It doesn't mind a rainy day or the breezes battering.
I'm so delighted it's no more, that silly fashion craze!
Whoever coined lying words and said
THE GOOD OLD DAYS?