I got my hair cut this week. I say this week, because it usually takes a few days for me to get my hair cut because I always find the cut is uneven or weird somehow, so I have to go back and get it cut again. I’m not particularly attached to my hair, even though I’m told it’s distinctive. Thick, dark, curly. I’ve worn it long, I’ve worn it short, I’ve worn it red, platinum blond and electric blue, but these days, I’m naturally dark and naturally greying, and I can’t stand to have hair in my face so, once it gets to a certain length (looking like Ritchie Blackmore, as it always does), it has to go. And it has to be short. Elizabeth Taylor in the 50s short. Hair like my mother’s short. No compromise. I think hairdressers might be worried I’m scared of having short hair, but I always tell them I’m not. I probably was as a child, with short curly hair and sticking out ears, but I got my ears pinned back when I was in my early twenties (cosmetic surgery known as ‘correction of batwing deformity’ which was much more painful than I could have imagined, particularly in ways I hadn’t foreseen - I’ll just say if you know someone who wants this procedure done, I recommend getting it done before becoming sexually active). Anyway, I’m not attached to my hair.
Books, however, are another matter. My daughter asked that I get rid of some books, and I looked at her like she suggested I amputate my leg. I did get rid of a few books that were old and mouldy and shouldn’t be inside anyone’s house, but that’s as far as I’m prepared to go.
My partner, on the other hand is attached to his hair, but not to possessions. He has few clothes and other items. But he has long hair and doesn’t get it cut. Ever.
So as an example for the children we cover both angles.
Attachment. It’s a funny thing.