Letting Down Her Hair

Letting Down Her Hair.

There was a time when Rowena was beautiful. She had had high cheekbones, sun-rise eyes and thick glossy hair. She now looked at her thin lips, sagging jowels and sparse, salt and pepper curls. She frowned which made it worse.

She realised that life had passed her by. There may have been a time when she could have married and been free to enjoy the wealth of love and familiy. Rowena was an only child. At around the time that she was becoming nubile her mother had fallen ill and become enthusiastically bed-ridden. Like many a dutiful daughter, Rowena cared for her unnervingly robust mother as, predictably, the years passed. A more selfish daughter would have counted thirty seven years. Rowena had not ventured beyond their tiny flat on the eleventh floor of Reg Watts House for anything more than the weekly shop and to put flowers on her father's grave.

Then, one day, just a month ago, her mother had died. Rowena was devastated. She was bereft. What was the purpose of her life now? That was also when she had noticed her reflection in the mirror. Was it too late to grasp happiness? She was soon to find out.

About a week after her mother died she had enrolled on a basic computer course . Fear had almost prevented her from taking the bus to the imposing college. She was a very quick learner, though, and within three weeks she was a competent silver surfer. That was how she had met Robert.

Well not exactly met him; they chatted in cyberspace. He was thirty five, unmarried, successful and she was thirty, fresh faced and had long golden hair which she wore in a braid. Tonight was the night that he was due to visit. It was their first meeting. There was a buzz on the intercom, "Rowena, Rowena, let down your hair..." but when he had climbed to to the top of the stairs there was no beautiful princess. Instead a menopausal woman with sun-rise eyes and, anyway, he was much older than thirty five.