My niece has purple hair at the moment. This isn’t her, by the way.
I wouldn’t have discovered she had purple hair at the moment if it wasn’t for Facebook – so the stupid social media site has had at least one use. Three in fact, since it inspired this post and has also, I suspect, inspired an as yet unwritten (but plotted) sci-fi story.
I don’t think I’m really a Facebook kind of person. I mean, I joined it, but then it asked me for friends. Friends? I thought. Oh dear! Well, I do – I have three, but none of them are on Facebook. The only people, shamefully, I could think of to ask to be made a friend of was my sister, her husband and their daughter, my niece. There was a longish wait before they agreed. For a while I thought it was only going to be the brother-in-law, who is a kindly soul and probably felt one of them had to. So I get an awful lot of stuff about football and motorbikes.
After a while I realised they weren’t actually reading my posts, or rather the links to my posts, put there by WordPress. (Not another of those dire Auntie Linda ramblings.) A while after that I realised WordPress and Facebook had had some sort of coming-to-blows over my posts, and Facebook was no longer posting my posts. Miserable, useless thing! If Twitter can do it, why can’t you? I worked out how to post manually, but I was discouraged. Why am I faffing about like this, posting links to posts that only three other people in the universe will see, and they won’t be reading? So I stopped.
However, there was this phrase – blending in with the rhododendrons. My niece had taken yet another selfie of herself in front of some rhododendron bushes on a visit to a country house, and appended to it a tiny story, of how she had had to dye her hair four times in a single day because the lilac (obviously the colour she was after) wouldn’t take at the roots, meaning she had orange roots and lilac other-bits, which wasn’t a good look. It was that phrase. A little shiver of recognition – another writer. So the gene did get passed on – from Dad to me – and to her. What would you call that shiver – WriteDar? And I recalled that Mum was always telling me how good at writing my niece was, when at school, and how that had truly pissed me off since writing was all I could ever do well, and no one had thought to sing my praises. Basically, I was jealous of the infant. Then I forgot. Till Facebook.
In the photo she is smiling, rather sweetly, and wearing glasses. I haven’t seen her for years but I see she has a silver stud underneath her lower lip. She always did look – the way I wanted to look, but didn’t. She turned up to Dad’s funeral in Doc Martens, I seem to remember, and something long, black and gothic, and pink spiky hair. Tattoos – she has those too. When they were going to whip her kidney out – or was it put the new one in – she was so worried about spoiling her best tattoo. And now she’s got no kidneys at all, poor kid, no functioning kidneys anyway. There’s the long drive to hospital three times a week for dialysis.
However, in between times she works in a chemist’s shop, and she’s looking for a flat. And she visits country houses and gardens with rhododendrons, and takes her picture in front of them, grinning, because she never knows how long she’ll be well enough to enjoy her freedom. Long spells in hospital. Spells of purple hair, rock concerts and rhododendrons.
So, that’s the post inspired by duff old Facebook, by a photo of a niece I haven’t seen for ages (who knows, she may come to my funeral) and a chance turn of phrase.
Now on to the sci-fi short story.
This isn’t her either, but a lovely shade of purple, don’t you think? Especially with the snow. I wonder – if I was to – no, I couldn’t –
I was just wondering if having purple hair, say, or Doc Martens, tattoos and piercings – would be enough to keep one out of the old folks home. I mean, would they be able to view you as an old person and make the assumptions people do about old persons, if you didn’t look anything like one?