Kia ora koutou, you remember those little blue flowers? Deep deep blue, look like bunches of small blue grapes? Grape Hyacinths (Muscari). I’m sure one of you with better eyesight, can post a photo. They used to be in everyone’s garden, often beside or mixed in with those old–fashioned all–white freezias with the gorgeous haunting perfume.
Every autumn, gardeners all over the country would thin them out, chuck the excess away or put them on the garden stalls at school or church fairs where the poor little things languished because everyone already had thousands. At closing time they were chucked in the rubbish. Now those little blue numbers, one in each small pot, sell for $4.95 each.
Once upon a time there was a garden on Nelson Crescent in Napier belonging to my mother–in–law Rubina, where every spring grape hyacinths bloomed, great swathes of deep deep blue that made you stop in your tracks just to look.
Yellow is probably the colour we associate with early spring but the blue–ness of grape hyacinths was a good constrast and in those days blue seemed to be a favourite colour especially for older women. Remember (you’re probably too young) those blue rinses we scoffed at? Whoever thought of such a thing as blue hair? Whoever thought it would be attractive? Whoever thought it would become popular? Someone who laughed all the way to the bank.
When I was young not every old woman had blue hair. It was a middle class thing and (apparently) especially liked by older female bridge players. Who knew? Good on them, I say.
They were probably just sick of what was offered at Famers, or Blythes or Kirks, Smith and Caughey or Ballantynes. Now that I’m old, I’m amazed and resentful that almost every item of clothing is blue, grey or pink. Perhaps an occasional red. But mostly pale. I’ve grizzled about this before to no avail.
Think about it. I have grey hair. If I wear grey or pale clothes I look like a ghost and blue or pink are so blah I could scream. Its like the manufacturers are making sure I blend into the background. God forbid an old woman should stand out, look like she’s still compos mentis, like everyone else.
Its hardly surprising that a group of older women had their hair dyed blue. I used to laugh at this as an example of too much money and time on their hands. Now I suspect they saw that having blue hair was a way of brightening up the general pale–ness of everything offered by the big stores? Especially when grey hair added to the general invisibility of being old.
Or maybe they just loved grape hyacinths and wanted to be part of the blue–ness of them. To attract smiles instead of being looked through or around or over.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to dye my hair blue. For one thing I’m too lazy to keep it up and for another I only like that colour in the garden, the sky or the sea. It’d be quite nice to go mad and get rainbow hair but I’d only want it for an hour or so then I’d have to change it.
Then there’s that metaphor for being sad – being blue. Today when I saw that little grape hyacinth in its pot I almost bought it because I felt sorry for it – its meant to be in a bunch or a border or between white Freezias, not sitting sad and blue in a pot on a supermarket shelf.
Next time, I told it, next time.
