May the Fourth

Yesterday was Star Wars Day, celebrated by fans around the world. Apparently, some binge-watch the films, (set in a galaxy far far away), and exchange classic lines of dialogue with like-minded earthlings. ‘May the Fourth be with you’ is a neat little pun – an appropriate greeting for the day. I’m told it originated on May 4th 1979, when Margaret Thatcher became Prime Minister. A full- page ad was taken out in a newspaper congratulating her – ‘May the Fourth be With You, Maggie!’

After the initial excitement of the first couple of films, I was unmoved by them. The youngish Harrison Ford had a certain swagger about him, but it was Carrie Fisher I admired. Despite the huge Princess Leia side bun hairdo, she seemed incandescently intelligent. I’ve read ‘Postcards from the Edge’ twice, (and seen the movie), and I felt very sad when she died suddenly in December 2016. A waste of a multi-talented individual, a woman of wit and wisdom, who had many more serious troubles to contend with than earmuffs.

The husband likes a bit of swash and buckle. He’s been binge-watching, not Star Wars, but The Last Kingdom. There have been four series so far, based on a series of books by the prolific Bernard Cornwell. They are set in pre-Norman Conquest ‘England’ and feature kohl-rimmed eyes (the men), much horse-riding, many battles, and some unpronounceable names riddled with vowels.

 I’ve been less gripped. I have to close my eyes and ears at the gory bits. Scenes of torture, execution, etc aren’t really my thing. But that period in history has always interested me, and the main character is quite easy on the eye.

What fascinates me though is the range of hairstyles amongst the male protagonists – from close-cropped to bowl cuts to flowing ringlets to undercuts and manbuns. Some beards are plaited and ornamented too. Complicated to maintain in those turbulent times I would have thought.

I am not usually trusted with anything sharp. My lack of prowess with a blade causes people to look away, hold their breaths. Over the weekend, the husband decided it was time for action. He took himself away to a quiet place and attacked his hairiness with ancient clippers, better suited to trimming the whiskers of a mouse. The outcome was not good – scalped in some places, mullet in others.

Yesterday evening he gave up his hat disguise. He traded a tidying up of the disaster zone for a bottle of wine. My daughter-in-law, who has many practical skills, came to the rescue armed with Babyliss for Men. The husband now has hair of the same length all over. It is bristly and a lot shorter than I’m used to. But he looks like he means business.   

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