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.