Due to the fact that without make-up I look like a mildly alarmed 12-year-old, I am rarely catcalled. However, as I walked down the street last week, post blow-dry, I was well and truly, as Bey would say, “feeling myself”.
So when I heard a cry of “What have you done to your hair?” ringing out from behind my back, I swirled around, hoping that a compliment was in store. “I dyed it purple!” I responded, with the naive enthusiasm of one who has been praised by their parents almost every week of their 22 years. The catcaller in question was a woman in her late sixties. She was dressed stylishly and held two shopping bags on each arm. “Well, it looks disgusting,” she said, stopping in her tracks as she stared at my head, a grimace spreading over her grandmotherly face. I was shocked. My new-found hair-volume-induced confidence slipped from my Converse. “I quite like it,” I stammered, and she shook her head. “It looks really bad, it’s horrible.” With that, she seemed to have finished her tirade, and we both walked on rather awkwardly in tandem, until I gave up and turned a corner just to avoid my elderly bully.
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