My grandma's hair, as she never tired of telling everyone, was golden.
It didn't go grey either - just stayed the same colour until she died, age 93, in 1991.
The colour, however, was not golden. It was ginger. Well, that's what we thought, anyway. A rather pale kind of a ginger, not the bright carroty kind, but ginger nevertheless.
She wouldn't have it though. In her old age all kinds of nurses and so on would wind her up something rotten, without meaning to.
"How lovely that you've still got your ginger hair, dear!"
"It's not ginger. It's golden."
"Are you sure? It looks ginger to me."
"GOLDEN." She was only four feet ten, with size one and a half feet, my grandma, but really very much on the assertive side, so if she told you her hair was golden, you stayed told, if you knew what was good for you.
My hair's never been golden. Or ginger, come to that. It used to be blonde when I was little and then got darker. However, like my grandmother's, and like my mother's, it hasn't much grey in it at all - just a tiny little bit round the edges. But I don't like any grey, so the hairdresser dyes it as near as possible to its natural colour. My mother thinks that this is cheating and can't understand why anyone would dye their hair and always tells me this.
"Oh NO! You've dyed your hair! AGAIN!"
So, off I went back to the hairdresser, where the main excitement of the day was that her daughter was having her first driving lesson today. She explained, in her usual way, that you don't want to go to one of those big driving schools that insist on you having lots of lessons.
"It's better to just have a few, then you can absorb it all in between."
She paused for a moment.
"Mind you, if you have lots of lessons you do tend to pass your test."
I tried to read my book but no luck.
"You look tired, today, Anne." Sometimes she calls me Brenda and sometimes Anne. Today was an Anne day, which I think I marginally prefer.
"Yes, I am rather tired."
I know that "tired" is hairdresser-speak for "You look about a hundred and ninety-three."
"It's reading makes you tired. Don't read, that's my advice. I can only read for two or three pages and then I fall asleep. I don't even wear my glasses for most of the time, so I can't read anyway. You should stop reading."
"Well, no, actually, I like reading. I think it's work that makes me tired."
"You need a break. You should go shopping and buy some new clothes. Go to town, you'd enjoy that."
I know that "You should go shopping and buy some new clothes" is hairdresser-speak for "What on earth are those strange garments that you are wearing?"
But I had to say something and what I said was - foolishly -
"I don't like shopping for clothes and I don't often go to town. I buy as much as I can on the internet."
"Oh, you don't want to do that. It's dangerous. They just steal your money, on the internet. And it just makes you lazy, shopping on the internet. You don't get the exercise of walking round the shops."
I wasn't going to get into this discussion. I smiled nicely and returned to my book.
A little while later, it was time to wash my hair, and, for the first time, I looked up.
"Oh," said the hairdresser, "that's not your usual colour, is it?"
No, no, it wasn't.
Tracing back what had happened, it became apparent that the hairdresser, not wearing her glasses, had picked up what she thought was a tube colour 66 and it was actually 636.
Golden, my hair is now. Exactly the same kind of golden as my grandma's used to be.
When, on Friday, I fly across the Atlantic, America will be able to see me coming, all right.