Curly Hardhairs

This is a big puzzle, because the species ought to have died out in the age of rock'n'roll pensioners, but I saw one again today and I can only think that there's some very clever irony going on.
You know the women I mean- aged about seventy with a neat pink powdered face with eyeliner and a beauty spot, red scary lipstick. A twinset, and tweedy skirt; beige nylons and neat little black patent shoes with kitten heels. Sometimes pearls, sometimes not; all crowned by a very pale grey, very solid-looking set of rococo curls with a feature at the front, a sort of tubular horned arrangement flourishing off to the left and the right that looks like one of those waves surfers dream of but never experience.
Wow.
Tomorrow I'm off to see Zillah Ashworth's film, 'She's a Punk Rocker', at the Cinescene in Piccadilly, the Songbird later. I've just got back from slurping squash soup (no, not orange squash soup, silly, that pumpkin thing) with Diana in Highgate Woods. We were so busy yakking we got lost and her arthritic dog went on strike briefly until she lied: 'Breakfast time!'. He stumbled back to his feet and she hoisted him into the car.
Now, I have a lecture to write and the Christmas songs to finish! I've done four, a showtune, a rckabilly song, a waltz and a drinking song, and I can't wait to record them.