A BEACH TOO FAR

A Dumper

 

Water turns me on, not in a sexual sense but in a making me feel alive sense.  As soon as I see it my spirits lift in a way that a landscape can't affect me.  I don't know if it's because I grew up near Sydney's Northern beaches and, from my home, had a beautiful view of Pittwater, an inlet of the Hawkesbury River.  Whatever the reason, I am never quite complete without a water-scape to fill my senses.

The view of Pittwater from Church Point

Australia is surrounded by water, which makes it an island, but there is so much interior that living near the water, or with a view of it, is both sought after and expensive.  Of course a person could buy a cheaper property overlooking water on some barren southern cliff but, in general, the most sought after water views are near cities or coastal towns.

There are plenty of barren and inhospitable beaches on an island continent whose mainland circumference measures almost thirty thousand kilometres.  This measurement does not include Tasmania or the many islands that make up Australian territory.

One thing they all have in common are sharks.  Of course there are sharks in every ocean save, I believe, the Mediterranean, which has smaller, mostly harmless sharks. Nonetheless in Australia few people are taken per year and this is because most know where and where not to swim. When I say few, I mean at least ten to twelve, and to those poor souls the statistics are meaningless.

My parents taught me that swimming inside the breaker line meant that you were less likely to be taken by a shark.  Sadly I'm shortsighted and every large cluster of seaweed was mistaken for a Kim-eating shark.  To this day, though, I have all my limbs.  Waves disturbed me almost as much as sharks.  Australian children learn how to be 'dumped'.  How often did I emerge from the water with a crotch full of sand?  Plenty.

It's quite embarrassing having your swimsuit hanging between you thighs laden with wet sand.  You try to extricate it hiding your lower half under the water but its not easy.  Chances are another wave will come along and force you face first in the water.  It's all part of growing up at the beach but it doesn't seem to happen as much when you grow older.  In my case it's simply because I hate getting my hair wet and having to wash it afterwards.

My first experience of the surf was of being walked towards a breaker on the shoulders of my not very tall father as he jovially assured me he would let no harm come to me.  The approaching wave was taller than both of us put together and I quickly formulated that it would break over the top of us.  I freaked out and now can't remember the outcome

This lovely, fatherly attempt to help initiate me to surf has stayed with me all these years and had the opposite long term effect to giving me confidence.  Bless his heart though for trying.  Nonetheless I was soon confronting waves and have since done my share of diving under a curler to avoid a dumping.

There's nothing like the thrill and terror of seeing a dumper, a wave that curls from the top and begins to form a cylinder within.  There is but one thing to do and that is dive and hit the sand, lay flat and wait for it to thunder down, over and past you.  Often however, if big enough, it will pick you up from the bottom and take you with it, rolling you around like a dead fish so that you don't know which way is up when it starts to subside and you can try and surface for air.

Describing this scene is like reliving it all over again.  You never forget the experience but you will still return to the sea as if the primeval part of your brain draws you there to better, simpler times that are hidden deep inside your brain's inner cortex.

When I see an expanse of blue water it is as if my soul, which has gone into hibernation from the sheer repetition of the everyday, wakes up and thinks heaven is in sight to release it from its physical confines.  It really does feel like that.  Something deep within me stirs and feels the hope and possibilities I am missing these days.

While I love the beach, not all are equal.  In its vast circumference Australia has only a small percentage of really good swimming beaches.  Some of the reasons for this are the quality of the sand and water but for others, no matter how perfect the swimming possibilities, you only venture in at your peril.

Above the Tropic of Capricorn exist crocodiles and, in the summer, deadly Box jellyfish.  The stings of this creature are so painful they are likely to kill you before the venom.  Those few who have survived them have the scars to show for it.  The long, stinger covered tendrils leave dark, permanent welts all along the lines where they have touched the skin.

Scars left by the tentacles stingers of the Box jellyfish

Box Jellyfish

The islands of the Great Barrier Reef are where people swim, scuba and snorkel and are supposedly free of stingers.  This is because the jellyfish breed in river estuaries and remain close to shore.

Sea snakes don't seem to kill anyone even though they are capable of it.  They are a gentler variety than their land based cousins and don't attack.  Another danger in the ocean is the Manta Ray with its venomous tail spike but this is only a defense mechanism.  The only death I have ever heard of from one of these gentle giants is the tragic one of Steve Irwin.  The great environmentalist and exuberant, infectious character was killed by one.  It was almost a fitting end for the great man as a warrior for nature to be speared in the heart.  I almost see the hand of God in his ending.  There was no surer way to ensure his work would never be forgotten and its effects continue long afterwards.

But back to beaches.  I once lived in Melbourne on Port Phillip Bay in a bay side suburb.  The water was still and shallow and I needed shoes to wade into its tepid water.  In my mind it wasn't water at all.  My husband and I went to the coastal beaches near Portsea, the so-called back beaches.  These were not attractive like those in Sydney and look positively dangerous.  We never went back.

A Back Beach of the Mornington Pensinsula south of Melbourne, Australia

I now live in Brisbane which, to my horror, when I arrived, I discovered had no surf beaches.  I was so eager to get out of Perth I didn't care.  The surf beaches lie an hour to the north and to the south.  The southern Gold Coast boasts the most famous beaches in Australia.  I think they are inferior to Sydney's, but they are a tourist haven.  The beaches are long, unbroken by headlands and surrounded by skyscrapers.  People drown there every summer because foreign tourists simply can't read the sea.  It looks tranquil but there are rips, undertows and sandbanks.  The life savers do their absolute best or the numbers would be much higher.

The Gold Coast

Some people prefer the more natural beaches of Noosa and the ones on the sea side of Fraser Island.  Those around Noosa, apart from the one of Noosa town itself that is not a surf beach, are hard to get to without a four wheel drive.

There are also great beaches off Stradbroke Island that lies off Brisbane.  Unfortunately it is a forty minute ferry trip from the mainland and you may need to travel up to an hour to get to the ferry depending on where you live in Brisbane.

When we lived in Perth we were at first excited at the sight of the white sand beaches and surf.  Sitting upon one just before midday one Saturday we saw people begin to vacate the beach and looked at one another puzzled.  Then it happened.  A breeze picked up and became stronger.  The sea became choppy and sand began to pick up.  We left.  We had experienced the famous Fremantle Doctor, the breeze that comes in every afternoon and makes the beach impossible to enjoy.  Our earlier idea of an evening beach barbeque went out the door.

Myself, son Asher and Bruno on a bleak winter's day at City Beach, Perth, WA

In the afternoon the ocean becomes a glassy mirror as the sun begins its journey down to the horizon.  I was very glad not to have a view of this from our house, which was within a kilometer of the beach.  It explained why, up until then, the nineteen eighties, Perth had no really prestige houses with an ocean view north of Cottesloe.  Things changed while we were there, but I wouldn't have paid to look at that hot, silver strip.  The ocean is on the West and facing in that direction in Perth is hot.  The word humidity hasn't made its way to that city yet and never will.  Hot means very hot and dry.  It is also very cold in winter.

My parents moved to Perth against my advice, stayed two years and moved south to the beach holiday town of Dunsborough.  This is where the West's beaches come into their own.  Dunsborough is situated on Geographe Bay.  The bay faces North West and is protected from winds at its Southern tip by Cape Naturaliste.  The sand is white, the water blue and there are no waves.  The water is shallow then deepens gradually.  Sharks don't bother coming in to such warm water without enough depth.  It is absolutely ideal for families and those of us who have been terrorised by big waves.

The gorgeous beach at Dunsborough, WA on Geographe Bay

The only problem here are small and vicious little stingers that come when the water flows from certain directions at swimming times of the year.  They can vary in size annually as well and the sting can range from an irritation to painful as my son discovered one year when he was the first in the water and ran out covered in painful welts.

Further around from Dunsborough come the little cove beaches that are deeper and with some chop.  These are in secluded and protected headlands and grass and trees line the the area down to the sand.  Moving a little further south you come to Margaret River and Yellingup beaches.  These are famous surf spots.  Yellingup is surrounded by a steep hill on which perch the holiday homes of Perth's wealthy.  You can't call it a pretty place but the beach is great.  There is major surf area and a lovely protected lagoon on one side for swimmers.

Lagoon at Yellingup Beach, WA

I am fond of this southern part of Western Australia now that I don't have to live in there.  It's partly because my parent's remaining years together were spent there and partly because it has a lovely atmosphere.  I shall go back as I must to place my mother's ashes with my father's.  His lie in the memorial garden of the church he helped design and build - Our Lady of the Southern Cross.  That's another very good reason I have great fondness for the place.  It really is a little slice of heaven.   

END

BEST DRESSES IN HISTORY

Oh dear!

 

 

I'm beginning to think that there should be some uniformity to clothes even if bodies come in all shapes and sizes.

Walking through the city these days you see such a hodgepodge of fashion choices it can almost make you giddy.  Well it does me.  It has made me think about which dresses I consider to be the most attractive and wearable in the history of clothing.

I think that there is something in the brain that seeks a reference point with which to make judgements.  We know this is how the brain works in regard to facial recognition and it may do the same when we observe fashion.  Perhaps we're seeking a theme.  After all that is exactly what fashion designers work at creating when they bring out a new collection.

Of course they can't just come up with one of their own themes unless they are famous like Versace or Dior, so designers must come up with themes within the current year's accepted Parisian and Italian generated trends.

As I observe people en-masse, with women in particular in mind for this post, I can count the well dressed ones on one hand.  I must be specific about 'well dressed'; it is a combination of well chosen clothes, shoes, hair and, if there is make-up, that too.  It comes down to simplicity and elegance.  It can vary from a pair of jeans and a shirt to a suit, but it's how it's put together.  It can even be eclectic or outlandish but if its done right it can work.

It's also who is wearing it.  A woman needs good posture.  She can be slim or huge but she needs to carry her clothes well. 

Some fat girls and women in Brisbane actually wear shorts God bless their deluded sense of style.  Do they have a special 'thin' mirror at home?  Do their mothers tell them they look lovely wearing anything?  Have they ever looked at their rears in the mirror?  In fact this is a must if you check yourself before you go out.  Even the sleekest can get a shock when they take a good look at their rear.


OK let's get down to business starting chronologically.  These are my choices for the best dresses in history.

The Greco/Roman toga:

Well there are no actual photographs of course but the picture above gives you the idea.  It looks as if the man just got out of bed and took the sheets with him, quite reasonable when people rose with the sun and went to bed a couple of hours after it went down.  What a great way to save time.

If you read about the students of Aristotle you discover that his young students left home in the dark and walked with an oil torch to school so that they could learn in the daylight hours.  I took Latin at school for four years and I picked up this little historical titbit in the process.  Natural light dictated life in those times unlike the extended night life we have now.

In Roman times, women, being delegated to the home, no doubt took a little trouble with their appearance and fashioned the cloth to enhance their female forms.  Their only real asset in those days was their ability to attract a mate who would look after them.  It is interesting that throughout history clothes have become the currency of female attractiveness.

The woman's toga is simple and comfortable yet, although it is long, the fabric lies directly against her breasts and her legs are outlined as the folds fall loosely over them.  As she walked they would also be apparent.  Quite a sexy garment altogether.

In spite of women now being independent, they are still inclined to dress themselves to attract a mate.  It's no use bleating that this isn't true.  We compete with each other at this level and that remains a fact to this day.

The Cheong Sam

Take, for example the Cheong Sam pictured above.  It arose from a much looser garment that was redesigned by courtesans and high society women in Shanghai in the 1920's.  "Let's show off our assets" it said in so uncertain terms.  Our model looks as sweet as a honey pot but that's not the idea of the Cheong Sam.  Most of these dresses have a split up one side of the leg as well.  They can be either long or short but are designed to highlight a curvaceous figure and to attract a man.

Try putting an older Tai-Tai in one of these.  A Tai-Tai is an older Chinese woman, who is the matriarch of a family.  She will wear silk pants and a top that is a loose version of the Cheong Sam.  She has done her child bearing and no longer has to squeeze into the silk come-on dress.  She may also sport a couple of gold teeth.  'Tai' means 'big' in Cantonese.  Translated, therefore, the Tai-Tai is the 'big big' and the head of the household.

The Chinese respect the matriarch's position as opposed to Westerners who have not traditionally respected the housewife/mother.  The Tai-Tai rules the home while the father rules the business and money earning side of the family.

A dress can mean so much more than fashion.  It is tight in youth and comfortable in later years when she has had her family. The Chinese are a wise people.

That brings us to another culture as represented by India and the fabulous sari.

What a wondrous garment this is!  I bought one in Fiji when I was eighteen and spent days trying to wear it correctly.  It came with instructions.  It is one very long piece of material that is wrapped around the body, pleated and folded in a way that makes a Rubik cube look like child's play.  Surely, I thought, the Indian women must secure it with pins or clasps when they get it right so it doesn't come undone.  Somehow I doubt it.

How on earth someone managed to take a rather sumptuous bed sheet and manipulate it in this way is beyond comprehension.  Perhaps a guru on drugs came up with the idea.  Well that's one explanation but that isn't fair to women's ingenuity.  As someone who sews I can almost imagine how the sari came about.

A woman came across five metres of fabulously woven fabric and tried to decide how to make it into something she could wear.  The fabric was so beautiful, with borders and gilt embroidery, that she couldn't bear to cut it.  What could be done?  She spent hours, days, weeks, months, perhaps even years trying to wrap it in such a way that she could conserve all the material and also make a feminine gown that enhanced her figure.

She only had to make one concession and that was a top to cover her shoulders and breasts that she could wear beneath it.  The woman who came up with it deserves a Nobel Prize in design.  Of course some man probably took the credit.  I suspect the only credit a man deserves however, is figuring out how to unravel it to get a woman undressed.

We move on to my last great dress, the Flapper of the nineteen twenties, which arose in Western society.  Of course in previous eras in the West there were voluminous dresses with huge skirts, lace collars and tiny waists.  I suspect these were a tribute to the fineness of the manufacturing process that created such materials and the quantity of fabric that the wealthy could afford.  The wealthier the woman the larger the skirts to show that the cost of the fabric was of no concern to her.  They were encased by corsets made of whalebone, another expensive and rare item, and stiff lace collars made by hand. In those times wealth was displayed by the quality of clothing and not only reflected how advanced was the manufacturing process of woven goods but how effective was their trade with foreign lands.

The Flapper

A Modern Version of the Flapper

It's post WWI and a whole new world rose from from the ashes.  Massive progress has always been made in technology by governments spending huge amounts trying to win wars.  All kinds of remarkable innovations grow from what is a terrible and negative event.

The greatest casualty of war, however, is a way of life.  WWI saw the demise of old class systems but also the growth of women's emancipation.  Because I'm writing about fashion I won't go into why these things happened, but fashion reflects these changes.  Hemlines suddenly went up and morals went down, at least compared to the rigid Victorian times.

It was as if the twenties became one big post war party.  Naturally lives went on as usual and people got back on with the business of making homes and families.  Yet there were other repercussions from the huge carnage of WWI and these had the effect of making some people live as if there was no tomorrow.  Adding insult to injury was the great Influenza epidemic of 1919 that killed as many people as the war had.  Can you imagine the effect these events had on youth?

No wonder some of them started to party and from this arose the Flapper, one of the first signs of the newly independent woman.  Aside from the negative events that help precipitate fashion trends, the results can be uplifting.  The sight of women exposing more of themselves has to have a positive effect on the psyche of men no matter how serious the reason for the change and especially after so much suffering.

The Flapper dress is beaded and short but also loose and, at the same time, slimming.  Of all the dresses of history this one speaks of women's new found freedom of expression.  There is no corset, the bra hadn't been invented and legs finally came into view.  The lady probably had a cigarette holder and smoked as well.  Although smoking is frowned upon now, for a woman to smoke in public showed her equality with men. This woman had arrived and for the first time ever she cut and bobbed her hair.

If you look at nature you will see how all creatures use colour and shape to attract mates for the purpose of reproduction.  Humans with their evolved minds try new ways to do so instead of just leaving it to nature.

As our intellect grows so too does our creativity to compete for sex.  Fashion is our ever changing display.  We are really more fascinating than we realise but, while butterflies, for instance, never get it wrong because their method is tried and true and built into their DNA, humans can and perhaps that means that, if your display isn't good enough, you won't attract a mate.  Either that or you will attract one exactly suited to your type.  Maybe that works just as well.

Nature aims for the best.  Humans, it seems, with their blossoming intellects, may be evolving new standards that will either succeed or fail.  I guess that's the risk in evolution.  You get it right, you endure.  You get it wrong, you don't.  Dresses are a woman's display as we have no feathers or fur.  The beauty of fashion is that we can vary it to suit our moods.  What butterfly can do that?

My last tribute isn't to a dress but I couldn't resist it.  Who could forget Raquel Welch in a fur bikini in the film "One Million Years B.C."?

Raquel Welch in a fur bikini

Now if you wore this down the street, oh, and borrowed her figure as well, it wouldn't matter what any other woman within a kilometer was wearing.  No one would be looking.

These a just my choices.  I'd love to have my readers comment on their choice of History's Best Dresses.

END.

ANZAC DAY - LEST WE FORGET - The WWI diary of my grandfather.

Edwin Albert Greenwood came home from WWI less one arm but went on to start a family.

He was my mother's father and, in World War I, left Australia by ship to serve overseas.  It was four days after his twenty-second birthday when he set sail.  At least he came back.  I write this in memory of him and the men of my family who served in wars.

The journey by ship to Europe took some months.  Like many Australians he volunteered.  Australia felt bound to England as an ally and young Australian men from the age of sixteen became cannon fodder in a war that had nothing to do with them and who could not imagine the horrors that would confront them.

My grandfather seemed to take it all in his stride in spite of losing an arm.  From his diary he appeared to be stoic and to concentrate and enjoy what was good rather than dwell on what was bad.

I know he grew up on a farm in Hahndorf in South Australia.  There was no conscription and he and his brother, Bob, tossed a coin to see who would remain to tend the family farm with their father and mother and who would go to war.  My grandfather lost the toss but thankfully not his life.

I often consider how many people were not born as the result of wars.  Considering how close my grandfather came to death I may well not be here.  He told my mother that he was walking beside another young man on their way to the trenches.  When my grandfather went out of the trench into no man's land and was shot, that same young man took the brunt of the blast and was killed although this isn't mentioned in the diary.

Below I have included all there is of his diary.  I could have transcribed it but I felt the original, covering 1915 to 1917, was far better to display.  His writing is clear.  There is discrepancy in the dates where some pages contain periods that go between others on previous pages.  I have cut and pasted the pages in order to put them in the right order, but there may remain one or two discrepancies.

He spent one day at the front at Steenwerk in France. It is 56km South East of Dunkirk.  He went 'over the top' of the trenches, which he called the 'parapet', was shot and lay on the battlefield for eighteen hours before being brought in.  He does not mention in the diary that maggots helped the blood to clot in the wound and helped stem the blood flow.

His left arm was amputated at the elbow and luckily he came home.  His description of all of this is incredibly matter of fact but read it yourselves.  The diary begins in Melbourne where he boards the first of the ships that will take him to France.

Steenwerck, Les Monument aux Morts

Below is his diary.

Page 1

E.A. Greenwood front and centre on Hospital Ship

 

End of Diary

Reading this I find it amazing that his writing shows no despair at losing his arm.  Perhaps he was just glad to come out alive.  Yet there is so much emphasis on the positive. He enjoyed being paraded around Paris and shaking the hands of locals on his way to the trenches.

Later on he had fun on leave in Paris and at a dance in England when out of the hospital.  While in hospital they were visited by 'Zeps', Zeppelins that bombed near the hospital on four occasions.  He also 'swanked' it in a first class carriage on a train from Southall.  The loss of his arm was almost an aside.  Perhaps men didn't show their emotions then but I think he had a 'glass half full' mentality.

I know nothing of what happened immediately after this.  I also don't know what year Pop, as we called him, met my grandmother, Lillian Sutherland, in a boarding house in Victoria run by her mother.  They were married in 1920.  He set up a manchester business from scratch and it became so successful it was publicly listed under the name 'E.A. Greenwood'.

People who knew him in business called him the 'one armed bandit', a reference to his shrewdness in business and the poker machines of the time that had a lever (arm) to make them spin rather than buttons.

He was a tall, elegant man who always dressed impeccably.  Sadly in his last fifteen years, after my grandmother died, he had a stroke that left him without sight in one eye.  He gradually became weaker and was an invalid for the remaining eight years of his life.  He remained mentally competent to the end of his life and I loved him dearly even though he was a reticent man.

One moment in France in a senseless war left him disabled for life.  He didn't let it interfere with living however and I never once heard him complain.  He had a special knife cum fork made in England so that he could eat and drove an automatic car without a problem.

In searching for photos of Pop I also came across some of my father's father Henry Kenneth Prior who later became editor of The Bulletin.  His father had bought it from its founder J. F. Archibald.

Ken Prior, as he was known, once joked that he may have shot off Pop's arm as they were in France at much the same time.  Ken Prior came out of that war unscathed physically.

  

 My father's father Henry Kenneth Prior on a horse in WWI

  

Unfortunately the backs of the photos give few details as to his whereabouts in all the photos, however, those that follow were taken in Tel-el-Kebir, Egypt where Ken Prior spent some of the war.  Below are other photos and these must be of men in his unit with whom he served.  They are well worth including in this tribute even though I cannot name most of the men.  They are a visual history.  He also went to France but those photos are too faded to place here.

 

The photo below has details on the back.  The men are all from one family.  It was taken at Tel-el-Kebir, Egypt in March 1916.  Their ranks appear beneath each one.

Cpt. V.H. Gattiff,        Lieut. C.E. Gattiff,       Capt. F.E. Gattiff 

       49th Battery              4th L.H. Regiment      54th Battery

       Major D.S.O.            Captain 51st Battery

                                        

 Whoever these men were, they served their country almost one hundred years ago.  There was no fear in their faces, just camaraderie and perhaps that great Australian word, 'mateship'.

 WWII

My father served in WWII as a lieutenant.  He spent two years in Sydney and told his superiors that if he was not given a posting out of Australia he would go to London and join the Air Force.  He was posted to New Guinea and took command of an Anti-Aircraft Artillery Unit.  He spent four years there.  Happily he was never wounded.

Lt. William Norman Prior WWII 

At the end of the war while still enlisted he joined the War History Department.  As part of his duties he interviewed senior Japanese officers who were being held to go on trial for war crimes.

Edwin Greenwood's son Ron Greenwood, my uncle, joined the Air Force and served in Canada, the United Kingdom and South East Asia as a Flight Lieutenant.  He came out of the war unscathed but tragically died at the age of forty-six from a massive coronary leaving a widow, Margaret and two children, my cousins Malcolm and Debbie.

Ron Greenwood RAAF WWII

I was a young teenager in the sixties and watched the demonstrations against the Vietnam War and forced conscription.  Years later I advised my son to never fight in a war that he did not believe in.  I would rather he go to gaol and I'd visit him rather than have him conscripted and die in a war that is not Australia's concern.

WWII was our concern.  It was the whole worlds.  WWI should have remained a European affair but thousands of Australians' lives were sacrificed to it.  I am grateful none of the men in my family died in these wars but they served their country selflessly and that is still an extraordinary and honourable act.

I pray and hope our children when never have to fight in another war but here's to those who did.  They saw it as their duty and did it with gallantry.  Long may their memories live.

 END

 

HAIR

My Mother handled Col's hair as if it was live snakes.

Have you ever wondered why humans were left with hair on top of their heads and not much anywhere else post the Homo Erectus stage of evolution? In fact why did hair make an exodus from the body?

At first I thought it must have been the result of humans covering themselves against the cold and the elements so that evolution, taking the hint, made a substantial amount of the body hair drop away.

Then I realised that humans had lost their hirsute covering before leaving Africa and its relative warmth.  Clothing, therefore, doesn't explain it.  I think hair must have remained on the head to protect the skull and brain but why does our head hair grow when that of most other animals grows to a certain length and stops?  The body hair that we do retain only grows to a certain length as well.

Some dogs have hair that grows constantly but this is probably the result of genetic mutation when humans interfered with breeding to create certain types of characteristics in dogs.

Whatever the reason we have retained head hair, it has provided humans with a lot of fun.  Not only that, it doesn't hurt if you cut it and you can manipulate it in all sorts of ways.  I also have a little theory.   Let me try it on you.

Intellect and self-consciousness are a bit like unstable atoms.  Things whirl around changing places and making connections.  It's remarkable we're not all quite mad.  As the brain evolved and self-awareness and thought came about we were fortunate in still having the basic desires of hunger and sex to keep them under control; to give them some direction.  And then there is hair.  What an interesting little distraction that is to a newly formed intellect.  So if a human is feeling a tad unstable or depressed there's always that mop on top which never behaves itself or does what it should that we can attack before turning our angst on some innocent party standing nearby.

Sound crazy?  Well I'll get back to that at a personal level but for now...

In ancient times women discovered that using certain fruits and herbs could alter their hair colour.  Henna and lemon were probably among the first to be used.  Henna was used as a red dye and lemon as a lightener particularly when out in the sun.

The Swedes had the monopoly on blonde and this desirable shade was often accompanied by blue eyes.  While grey and white hair signify age for some reason the equally pale blonde does not.  Perhaps it is more like the sun and has warmth in the tones.  The Northern peoples, who were the first natural blondes, saw little sunlight and this caused the exodus of Melatonin from their skin and hair.  In fact its absence caused them to appear more like that which they had lost, and that was light.  So in a sunless land, hair shone like the missing star.

In 1907 Eugene Schueller, a French chemist, invented "Aureole" a hair lightener that didn't damage the hair.  Its name later changed to "L'Oreal", the company that is still a leader in cosmetic and hair care research today.

I find it is very interesting that, unlike eyes, the colour of hair when passed on genetically seems to become a mixture of the parents, or it can throw up a recessive gene just to be perverse.  Eye colour follows certain rules but have you noticed how a child's hair can be a combination of its parents' colour?

I first noticed this in Eurasions.  The child of a Caucasion and an Asian didn't necessarily turn out with the hair of the Asian parent or that of the Caucasion.  It was often a dark-reddish brown.  My son is a mixture of my natural dark brown hair and his father's blond hair.  He is light brown or ash.  I dye my hair blonde and people get a shock these days when, at my age, they notice my roots coming through a splendid, grey free dark brown.

I inherited this gene from my mother and her mother.  Neither had a grey hair in their heads when they passed away, my mother at eighty-one.  My hair was light brown mouse in my youth but decided to darken as I grew older.

When I was about seven my mother's father told me that if I didn't eat the crusts on my bread, my hair wouldn't curl.  He was stunned when I told him I didn't want curly hair.  It must have been much prized by his generation.

My mother probably did eat her crusts but to no avail.  Her hair was flat as a pancake and fine as silk.  She spent her whole life torturing and tormenting these tragic strands to her will.  Sadly she tried to do the same to mine.  I asked her why she kept her hair short and she insisted it wouldn't grow but, given what she did to it, that wasn't surprising.  It wouldn't have had the resolve or strength of will left to grow.  I know it could because there were pictures of her in her youth when it reached her shoulders.

My mother was a neat freak and that meant not a strand of hair was allowed to stray out of place.  As a child I would walk into her room as she sprayed her hair with pressure pack hairspray.  There is some chemical in it that has a very pungeant odour.  I would run from the room.  To this day, if I must use hairspray, it is aerosol only.

Mum felt the need to exert power over me by controlling my hair.  She insisted it was kept short.  It was bad enough I was given two boys names without adding the insult of boyish hair.  Mum's mother had auburn hair to her waist which she kept in a bun.  I find it odd that Mum had such an aversion to long hair because of this but I believe she had issues with her mother and maybe that was the reason, but don't we all?

She told me that I could grow my hair when I reached twelve years of age.  At twelve I tried, but she bribed, she cajoled, she complained, and I gave in until I was eighteen.  My childhood friend Colleen had gorgeous long hair that her mother plaited each side and looped up and tied with ribbons.

When Col's mother went to hospital to have a baby, Col who was seven at the time, stayed with us.  Mum attempted to do her hair.  It was only recently that Col told me what happened.  She said that when my mother tried to plait her hair, she had handled it as if it was a live snake.  She could barely stand to touch it.  Col said it was such a mess that when she arrived at school, she re-did it herself.  It was the first time she had ever done her own hair.

It is obvious that my early obsessive-compulsive disorder came from my mother.  The very strange thing is that she didn't recognise that she had it.  While I beat mine, she had hers for life.  On Friday afternoon when she would pick me up from boarding school, I would comb my hair before seeing her.  I would get into the car and Mum would, almost without fail, tell me my hair was a mess.  I would say I had just combed it.  She would reply, "Well comb it again."

She also complained about having to pick me up at all.  On Mondays she drove me to school and on Fridays she collected me.  I was a very considerate child and tried never to upset her but this complaint fell on deaf ears.  I hated the school and didn't want to be there.  It was just revenge that she had to do this for me.

Once I got my own way with my hair she couldn't stand it.  When I was in my thirties Rob, my husband, actually forbade her to mention my hair at all again, ever.  He could see the effect it had on me and he could also see she was irrational in regard to it.  It really doesn't pay to have a parent constantly criticise you no matter what your age.

My hair has been long ever since I turned eighteen except for one disastrous occasion when a bad hairdresser bleached it off.  I was not happy for the three years it took to grow back.  For some reason I like being blonde.  I call myself a psychological blonde, but my roots insist on remaining dark brown.  I'm rather proud of the lack of grey but like Mum, my hair is silky and flat as a pancake.

I wear it just above shoulder length now and the beauty of longish hair is being able to pull it up into a bun or a ponytail.  Also, in winter I cover my neck and ears with it at night so they don't get cold.  It is a lovely feeling against my skin and makes me feel cosy.

Something lovely happened when Mum was in the nursing home.  She finally said nice things about my hair.  She was an entirely different person.  Perhaps the mini strokes had changed her personality or perhaps, once Dad had died, she finally turned to me.  Sadly no one could maintain her hair to her standards once she was there.  It was cut shorter than before and lay flat against her head.

All those years of putting rollers in it to give it body had gone.  She did need the body as her face was round and she had large cheekbones but oddly, she quite liked her new gamin style.  I truly wish I could have afforded a hairdresser to keep it plumped and perfect just for her sense of grooming.  I don't hold a grudge, I just miss her.

She had been a hyper-critical mother and her lack of being able to praise me taught me to always praise my own son.  It took me years to develop a sense of self-confidence for, whether she realised it or not, she was always putting me down.  I also learned that you must apologise to your children when you are wrong.  My mother never once in my life apologised to me.  My son isn't aware of the good things I did as a mother.  It's sad to say that a child only really notices when parents do the wrong thing.  Nonetheless I consider this a success for he is a mentally healthy young man.

My mother's obsession with my hair was simply a symptom of her need to control all her surroundings.  As her dementia grew the degree of her problem became glaringly obvious in many other areas as well.  I'm sorry she wasn't able to get help for it but the first thing is to recognise that you have a problem.  It was channeled into her hair and thankfully that probably saved the rest of us from worse repercussions as it bore the brunt of it.

Hair, therefore, has its uses at a deeply psychological level and I'm sure there are people out there with lots of similar stories.  A lot of our personality is described by the way we wear our hair and the way we try to control it.  A psychologist should write a book on it, if one already hasn't.

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