Since the mid 90s, my hairdressing has been essentially by numbers – ‘Yes, number 2 on the top and number 1 on the side, please’ These numerical descriptors were sufficient to give my barber a precise plan for what I required. It was convenient, quick, low maintenance, and the last maybe seven or eight years has been hidden from the world by a series of porkpie hats.
Suddenly my life changed. A few weeks ago. I removed my hat for some reason and my friend Churchie exclaimed ‘wow, that’s taken 10 years off you!’ Always a sucker for flattery, I was taken with this possibility of rejuvenation. This was corroborated when I came across my Russian Visa and the juxtaposition of my appearance with the Cyrillic characters brought it all home. Yes, I could’ve passed as an extra in ‘A day in the life of Ivan Denisovich!’
So I abandoned by regime of regular haircuts, and allowed my hair to grow. As my hair began to grow, I developed a small fringe, unfortunately, reminiscent of Charles Laughton in ’I, Claudius’. Also, as it grew, I needed to tame it, as it appeared to have forgotten where to ‘part’. I found a discarded comb in the dusty hinterland of the bathroom cabinet. Considering the fact that I grew up in an era when nobody had a phone, but every bloke had a comb, this was definitely an excursion into the past.
Of course, my newly hirsute head now requires considerably more attention than before. I emerge from my morning shower, looking like the unlikely lovechild of Milton Jones and Chewbacca. I tame the growth with my newly reacquired cosmetological skills, turning my wet hair into a slicked back look redolent of Gecko – I mean Michael Douglas in ‘Wall Street’, not the reptile.
During the first few weeks, this aerodynamic look gradually dried to a silver wave, which I found aesthetically appealing, with the slight disadvantage, that not yet having sufficient weight to stay under control, it was heading for a terrifyingly ‘cute’ Superman type ‘kiss curl’
I should also mention that my facial hair has also take a new direction. Having trimmed it into a ‘Hulk Hogan’ look for my film role as Jackie Mills small-time drug dealer, I allowed it to grow out, whilst guarding against the dreaded hedgerow look favoured by many musicians of my vintage. Flattery again raised its ugly head. My wife’s inexplicable, though very pleasing, continued desire to snog Jo me, means keeping my lips clear for maximum contact. This has resulted in me, combing my moustache out in an east-west configuration to enhance the osculation.
As a result of these developments in my cranial and facial hair. I have now arrived at a look which I can only describe as a fusion of James Robertson Justice and Andy Warhol – a combination, which probably says as much about my psyche as my hair.
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