Happy; happy clowns

When I was in year 12, I wanted to be cool and radical so I cut my hair. It was pretty long, and BabaK wouldn’t let me go to a hairdresser, so I stood in the bathroom with scissors and kind of cut a circle around my head. This was the end result.

My lovely nephew, who was two at the time, would always sing “happy, happy clowns” every time I entered a room. It must have been a song on Playschool – a bunch of adults traipsing around in their rainbow coloured afros. It took us sometime to piece together that he was identifying  me as a “happy, happy clown”, despite my very un-colourful afro.

Now that my hair is nigh on that horrid afro I proudly walked around with as a teenager, I’m quite grateful that there are no toddler nieces or nephews around to pummel me with insults.


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