My husband, like a lot of men, is a big fan of long hair.

We’re not talking shoulder length – we are talking Crystal Gayle length. Pentecostal/Plymouth Brethren long. Though, can I just say that if you’re going to have long hair, please tell me there is no religious reason you cannot invest in a decent conditioner? A flat iron, maybe? Ladies, unkempt hair looks like horse-tail. And if its length is anywhere approaching your bottom, you do NOT want anybody thinking of horses when they see you walking away!

Ok. So Crystal obviously uses conditioner. But seriously, folks. This is never gonna happen for me. Ever.

But I digress.

The subject of my hair has been a constant bone of contention between hubby and me over the years. It is never, ever long enough. I suspect he would be happy as a pig in mud if I just grew it to my ankles and roamed the streets of Coventry on horseback. Lady Godiva has a lot to answer for, setting the hair bar so high. (Or so low, depending on how you look at it.) And who can compete with that? The whole thing sounds disgusting, if you ask me. But, in the spirit of willingness, and mainly to prove that he is just being silly, I made a pact with my husband in October: I VOWED NOT TO CUT MY HAIR FOR AN ENTIRE YEAR. That’ll show him. Lady Godiva! Pffft.

And then I got to thinking.

You know, it was all well and good for Lady Godiva. She had a choice about whether or not she wanted to mount a horse clothed only in her long hair and humiliate herself, embarrass her husband and no doubt scorch the retinas of anyone who happened to be watching (I believe this is the origin of the fabled “Peeping Tom”).

But has anyone ever considered how her horse felt about all this? Seriously. I’m pretty sure her horse’s inner monologue went something like this:

1. Shock: “What? No side-saddle? No SADDLE?”

2. Denial: “Girl, you are NOT getting on my back like that… oh nooooo…”

3. Anger: “This. Is. So. Gross. I think I just threw up a little of this morning’s oats. I am NOT going to walk through town. I’m going to RUN! Maybe I can shake her off…” (Much to horse’s chagrin, Lady Godiva is a surprisingly accomplished bareback rider. Who would have known?)

4. Bargaining: “I’ll do anything…I’ll pull carts. I’ll work for the circus. I’ll donate my hooves to the glue factory – anything would be better than this…”

5. Depression: “Oh please, don’t let any of the other horses see me like this! I’ll be the laughing stock of the watering trough. I’ll never live this down. I’m going to have to roll in my own manure for at least a week to get this smell off me…”

6. Acceptance: “…Please, let me die now…”

Don’t worry, Coventry. Your retinas are perfectly safe.

But, as I have no horse and my hair, being fine and frail, has the annoying tendency to break off at about mid-back and never get any longer regardless of neglect or effort, I am pretty sure Coventry (and the rest of the world) is safe. In the meantime, me and my split ends are looking somewhat less than our usual well-groomed self, but hey, he asked for it.

Come the end of October 2014, I am looking forward to putting this 29-year-old “discussion” about my hair to bed for the last time. Lady Godiva, indeed!

Mother Hen

Feature photo: Shutterstock

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FOR THE RECORD: 

If Crystal Gayle was a horse, she would look something like this…

If I was a horse, I would look something like this!

Oh wait… No – that’s the wrong picture. THIS is me as a horse:

Got a touch of laminitis, I think. Maybe that’s why my hair won’t grow.