Big Rollers, Who knew?

A week ago I was visiting relatives in Manchester, and they very kindly took me on a day trip to Liverpool. The last time I had been there was fifty years ago, when I was a sulky teenager on a family car trip to Blackpool.

It was one of our last holidays all together, and we were at that awkward age when we felt far too grown up to still be travelling with our parents. I remember deliberately walking a good distance behind them, as though that might somehow disguise the fact that I belonged to them. Then I noticed that even further back, my two older brothers were doing exactly the same—each of us pretending we were not with the others at all.

Now, having lost both my parents, the memory makes me wince. I could almost cry at the selfishness of it. At that age I truly believed myself to be the centre of the universe, and the constant battle with facial spots felt like a tragedy beyond endurance. As someone once put it so well: “Youth is wasted on the young—because they are too busy thinking of themselves to notice it.”

Returning now as a pensioner, I found Liverpool vibrant, energetic, and full of life. The crowded streets, the noise, the sheer abundance of things to see and absorb—it was all quietly exhilarating.

One thing, in particular, caught my eye: the curious and wonderfully unapologetic habit of women wearing large hair rollers in public. From restaurants to buses, from shops to the airport—you could see them everywhere. I had no idea this was even a thing.

What struck me most was the confidence of it. In many places, people—especially women—feel an unspoken pressure to appear “finished” before stepping outside. Here, that expectation seemed to be gently mocked. The rollers were worn openly, almost cheerfully, as part of the process rather than something to be hidden.

I later learned that this is part practicality, part tradition, and part identity. The rollers are setting the hair in readiness for the evening ahead producing a big hair look for a night out—while they tackle daily tasks as usual. But more than that, it feels like a small, defiant celebration of self: a distinctly local style, worn with humour and pride.

And perhaps that was what I enjoyed most—the sense of ease in it. A kind of confidence that I suspect my younger self, so busy worrying about appearances, would never have understood.

Self Discovery and balloons

At a certain age you make discoveries about yourself.  Above fifty you realize mirrors are far too prevalent.  You have begun to appreciate comfort over appearance.  So clothes and footwear reflect that.  It is the slippery slope, which will end eventually with you shopping in your pyjamas and slippers, but you have decided to be realistic instead of in a state of denial.  

Other people become sources of amusement.  The types you recognise bring a knowing smile to your face.  Those you don’t bring a curious welcoming grin to your face.  Those who you vaguely suspect you know but may have forgotten get an odd smile but with raised eyebrows.  Small children and babies are delightful to watch and bring a strange happiness to your heart.  After all, it seems only yesterday you were climbing frames and sitting on swings yourself, shrill with excitement. 

Your grown up children now view you as unreliable, forgetful and naïve.  When did they stop needing you to hold their hand crossing roads and suddenly start lecturing you on traffic safety?  It was only yesterday you were terrified of them being abducted by strangers.  Now, they lecture you on directions, details of time, appointments and behave oddly protective of you in crowded city centres.  You took them for their jabs for measles etc now they ask in cross tones ‘Did you remember to take your medication?’  They are embarrassed by you on a regular basis because you have no longer the self consciousness of youth.  Not giving a darn about what others think has severed the control reins.  Things that used to embarrass you no longer make a dent in your ego.  It helps that the balloon-like ego of your youth has gone.  That feeling of being brighter, chosen, special has sunk down to a wrinkled prune.  Making a dent means just rearranging the folds and has little effect.

The good news is you understand how quickly life passes.  You can appreciate good friends because you know how exceptional they are.  Reasonable health is a call for celebration and thanks because you know how rare that is.  No longer taken for granted.  You have more relatives and friends in the next world than in this one.  That makes dying less fraught.  It also makes living a sweet privilege.

You don't suffer from youth’s primary complaint – boredom.  A scene in your head or a taste can bring alive your past.  A scent can drag memories out of the shadows.  When you meet old friends you greet each other like veteran warriors, sharing stories of triumphs and displaying wounds of bitter defeats.  You lift your cheek to feel the breeze, to soak up the sun’s rays and sigh with the bliss of it all.  To be alive and to relish each second that passes.  What a richness!  If life is wasted on the youth it is embraced and enjoyed by the rest of us.