Have hair do, can boogie

Mum was in fine mood today, so I thought we might try an excursion to the hairdresser, something that I had abandoned about a year ago because of Mum's growing dislike of washing her hair or showering. In fact, the twice weekly shower is really the only time that she swears at me. The shower is an event dreaded by both of us, I think. Mum is accusatory: "I never thought a daughter of mine would ever treat me like this". I plead, wheedle and soothe, talk gibberish to distract, but nothing really works. Thankfully, once she is sitting on the bed, wrapped in warm towels, her truculence subsides and gives way to tiredness. And so I undertook the monthly haircut (!) honing my skills as I chopped. I learned to become bolder. Trimming minute amounts just made Mum's hair look like it had been chewed. But today, I thought we might venture, so venture we did.

What a success!! It took a while to mountaineer the steps, but we arrived in reasonable time and the hair salon had been forewarned. H, the owner, was in attendance and couldn't have been kinder. When Mum realised that her hair was being washed, her head kept bobbing up from the bowl like a chicken trying to peck corn. Water sprayed and soaked the floor but H was unperturbed, sweeping Mum toward a chair. "Your daughter's keeping an eye on us", he flirted. Perfect! That got Mum giggly and girly, and she patted H's bottom. "You'll be out dancing tonight," continued H. He laughed with her, and took great care to cut and dry her hair in a style that was "gamine" rather than the old lady rollers - which Mum always hated with a vengeance. She trilled and batted her eyes, and loved every minute of it. H said I was to call anytime, and he would look after her. And he meant it.

Isn't that brilliant? Back home, Mum gyrated to Trilok Gurtu. I'm inspired. Look in local phone book. B for belly-dancers. Wonder if we could book a private class at home?