My 88-year-old mum has dyed her hair pink - why did she do it?

My 11-year-old niece had a bit of temporary hair colour left over, after her dressing up session for the Taylor Swift concert a couple of weeks ago.

I’m glad I don’t live near enough to be on the hit list as, on a boring Sunday afternoon, there had been a choice of either dyeing the hamster, dog, cat, or granny.

The existence of the SSPCA meant the pets got off the hook. While that would be animal cruelty, Age Scotland weren’t informed about my mother’s imminent make-over, so they couldn’t stage an emergency evacuation.

I exaggerate. She was an extremely willing victim, and said that my niece did a great hairdressing job, despite the fact that she couldn’t work the shower temperature dial, so my mum’s scalp - and the bathroom floor - was blasted with ice cold water.

It was like a Wim Hof meets Vidal Sassoon immersion experience.

It seems apt that one of my mum’s catchphrases is, ‘one must suffer to be beautiful’, and here she is, living proof.

Also, the blow-dry bit was rather half-hearted. I think the young stylist’s enthusiasm had begun to wane at that point.

At least the results are salon standard. It’s not a bright, Mrs Slocombe-style shade. Instead, the tint that’s been added to a salt and pepper - but mainly salt, these days - base makes for something hazily soft, like pink lemonade, candyfloss or ballet tulle.

(My five-year-old nephew was also a victim of the hair dye enthusiasm, but the same shade on brown hair doesn’t have the same impact).

It looks a bit edgy too, as if she should be on her way to Glastonbury, to hang out in the When I’m Sixty-Four Tent, if such a thing exists. If it doesn’t, it should. That would be where you’d find all the comfortable seats.

I feel like my mum’s hair style has been a long time coming. For the last few years, she has been talking about getting a cerulean tint, like old ladies used to get, back in the day. That’s despite the fact that it has become something of a derogatory and ageist shorthand - ie. the ‘blue rinse brigade’. Apparently, this shade was originally used to cancel out any unwanted yellow tones in the hair, but I think it looks mystical.

Now that mum has experimented with her first colour, she’s thinking about moving round the wheel, even if she’s lost the incentive.

That’s because she originally wanted that shade to match her eyes. “They’re not blue any more,” she says, “they’ve gone a dreich grey,” but that’s not true, they still look azure to me.

I have suggested purple, but she looked nonplussed at that suggestion. Anyway, I think she is just a bit bored of being defined by grey hair.

It’s time to reinvent herself. At the time of life when you’re expected to be invisible, adding a bit of rainbow colour feels like a small act of life-affirming rebellion. It’s not exactly to the levels of the heroin-addicted grandfather in Little Miss Sunshine, but it’s not negligible.

As Jenny Jones’ celebratory poem Warning goes, “When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple, with a red hat that doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves.”

Mum doesn’t like brandy, so hair dye will have to do.

I suppose she’s already had her prerequisite teenage hair experiment years, when she sported a tousled beehive, but then she conformed with something practical. As a working parent, her signature chin-length style and her post retirement luxury of a once-a-week blow-dry - really, she had a habit - reigned supreme.

Now, surely it’s time to go completely wild.

I remember, when we were teenagers, she took us to London’s Camden Market, and she was in raptures over the stallholders’ mohawks. (I suppose those punks will now be of retirement age, and I hope they continue to sport bright and spiky hair). She threatened to get one herself, and we were mortified, though also secretly impressed.

I’m pretty sure she was serious.

If my nieces suggested that granny get one of those, or should experiment with the current trend of a skullet (that’s a skin-head teamed with a long-at-the-back mullet, a la pop star, FKA Twigs), she could easily be persuaded

Or, she could go for the full whimsical rainbow hair trend, though my vision for her is striped ends, like porcupine quills.

She’s always been adventurous, when it comes to trends and colour.

When I was a child, she went through a phase, back in the Eighties, of wearing novelty tights. There were Lurex ones, but the tartan versions were favourites. She’s always gone for lipsticks in bright fuchsia or pillarbox red. Then there was the luminous yellow tracksuit, which she bought for a holiday, then never took off. We loved it, but dad started calling her The Canary.

I suppose he’s not around, to curb her experimentation, so anything goes.

Purple, summer gloves, whatever, She doesn’t need approval from anyone.

The pink is staying. Blue is next.