Minor celebrity
Frank Paynter has written up our random meeting in such terms as to make me remind people that appearances are deceiving. Nice? Ha-bloody-ha.
The hair, yes, the hair… the hair actually looked dreadful yesterday, because it was desperately in need of a wash and the wind had been playing with it. Ah, well. He’s right about 30-year-olds cutting it, though. We’re told to. After 30, long hair ages a woman, they say, and the only thing worse than a fat woman is an old fat woman.
Well, fine. Whatever. I can take a little age. And even when I’m 80 (I should live so long) I’ll be able to take a little age. And I give all and sundry full and free permission to shoot me dead the day I get a perm.
If Frank stops you on the street, though, I can attest that it’s safe to say hi. Besides, how often are you recognized by name by a stranger on the street? That’s reserved for celebrities, that is.