Piggy in the Middle

I'm thinking of putting an advert in the local newspaper for a hairdressing care attendant to appear first thing in the morning and fashion a French braid in my hair in exchange for a cup of coffee. It would take them a minute to perfect my coiffure, the time it took Glasgow daughter to do the same thing for me at Stobo.*

Yes I know the world and her sister can do it themselves, but either my arms are too short,  my hair too fine, or more likely I am just useless with my hair, but I find it impossible. If only I could take my head off and put it on a table in front of me, there would be no problem.
I can just about do a passable bun, but I am neither young enough or old enough to feel comfortable sporting one.
On the other hand I have never favoured the look of a grey pony tail on a bus pass owner, and although I'm still a dizzy blonde, I still have that tell tale  pass in my purse.

None of which is connected to the blip of colourful doors with their distinctive fan lights above, which we pass several times on our morning walks.
*see extra image