Eighteen months ago Poppy and I bet that she wouldn’t be able to grow her hair to her shoulders by 15th March 2015 – and that’s today. It wasn’t a big bet, only £20, but we’ve both been taking it very seriously from then on.

Poppy’s had very short hair since she was thirteen. She’s tried to grow it out a few times before but she usually gets bored and cuts it. This is what I was counting on.

We agreed that the only person we both trusted to adjudicate was Fat Sister, and this was a role she took very seriously too. When she came over she carefully made us go through the exact details of the bet, established the medical definition of ‘the shoulder’, and brought with her a variety of measuring implements.

Poppy straightened her hair in preparation and Fat Sister measured it in two different ways:

The Outcome? I’m £20 worse off and Poppy did a victory lap of the living room shouting ‘I’m the champion!’

My tics got in on the act as well.

“Your hair is longer than an Argentinian snake.”
“Your hair is longer than an icicle in an Icelandic winter.”
“Your hair is longer than the gap between a dormouse and an eagle.”
“Your hair is longer than the time it takes to do Sudoku.”
“Your hair is longer than long division.”
“Your hair is longer than all of Joy Division balanced on the Eiffel Tower.”
“Your hair is longer than a queue in the post office on a Monday.”