Ian McMillan: Hair apparent
When I was a boy my mother despaired of my unruly and wayward hair, the way it stuck up like a tree, the way it resisted all attempts at combing, the way it always looked like I’d had a fight with a petrol-driven lawnmower and an electric fan and lost. “Why can’t you keep it a proper style?” she’d say, tugging a comb through my reluctant locks which, true to their name, locked the comb up and wouldn’t let it shift. “Why can’t you have a parting and look smart?” she’d say, forcing the comb out and flinging it back into the drawer in disgust. Then, in a final utterance of stylistic no-hopery, she’d cry: “You look like Alfalfa!” and go and put the kettle on.