Colour me ging-er

Yes, I wasn’t kidding – I did indeed bleach me head in an attempt to get out of my Book 3 funk. A long, long time ago, when dinosaurs ruled the earth, before even steam-powered computers were available, I used to be blond. No, it’s true: I was a blondy-boy as a child, puberty came with spots, a deeper voice, and brown hair both on top of the old noggin and in specific personal areas. But on Saturday I decided to give being blond another shot.

So off we went to Turrif, bought a pack of Garnier Nutrisse Golden Barley, came back and did the deed. Stinky, stinky, stinky! It’s like having your head dipped in a bucket of old wee. Fiona tells me the Romans used to bleach their hair in Matured Asses Urine, but I’m not old enough to remember that, so I’ll have to take her word for it. But it was suitably honking.

And guess what I ended up with: ging-er. Not ‘ginger’ as that looks sort of natural, while this looks like a badly done special effect. She Who Must insists it’s ‘russet’ or ‘strawberry blond’, but really it’s ging-er. Ging-ging-ging-er. Like a radioactive can of Irn-Bru. My head is aflame with ging-erness.

But I have to admit that I feel a lot happier today than I did all last week. My change has been as good as a rest. Especially as I also had a rest. Tomorrow we’re going to try leaving the ginger-ness behind and go the whole blond hog.

I’m looking forward to my first official ‘blonde moment’. At last – an excuse!