Bad HAIR DAY

Mr D has trouble with his beehive – no, honestly

‘How do I look?’ said Mr. Dear.

For the first time in many years, words failed me. However, words are the very least that you expect from me on this page, so here goes. Courage, Rosie!

Imagine a man in his early 70s in a pair of tartan pyjamas, Marks & Spencer slippers and a blonde beehive hairdo in which you could hide a three-course dinner for 12.

‘Suits you,’ I said.

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘No, honestly, it’ll bring the house down.’

‘That’s something, I suppose. It’ll get a few laughs.’

‘No, I meant you should be careful not to knock it against the tops of doors. You could bring the house down.’

‘Very funny. Let’s see yours, then.’

Regular readers will guess that we are gathering together the costumes for our amateur dramatic production of Cinderella, in which we are to play the ugly sisters.

It was decided by Diana, our director, that two beehives would make us look like a pair of chess pieces, so my own wig is a 1980s tribute act. You know, not so much ‘Big Hair’ as ‘Have You Noticed, Dear, That A Family Of Yak Seem To Be Perched On Your Head?’.