WHEN I was a kid, I was blessed with a mop of almost white blond hair.
I say blessed, but as a young boy growing up in the 50’s, hair was not something you thought that much about, until the time came around when Mum sent me off to Fred Lester the local barber, for a harsh trim.
The attention from female neighbours was certainly not welcome when they would comment to my Mum on those white golden locks, and my cheeks would flush with embarrassment.
If it became just a little too long and a visit to the barber shop was overdue, the unfortunate effect was that it would start to curl making the situation worse and attracting comments likening me to the Hollywood child star, Shirley Temple.
Luckily the order of the day was short back and sides.
Then the Swingin’ Sixties rolled around and long hair became fashionable. Problem for me was the curly question.
All the pop idols of the day from the Stones to the inappropriately named Pretty Things, sported outrageously long hair. Even the Beatles, whose hairstyles look fairly moderate today, had styles that were regarded as long by previous standards.
But the one thing they all had in common was straight hair, and I was constantly looking for ways to take the kinks out of my own unruly barnet.
I wanted to look like John Lennon or Keith Richards, not Louise XIV.
Then in the seventies I came into my own and for some reason curls were in and became part of the glam rock boom. Hey, if it was good enough for the likes of Marc Bolan and Robert Plant, then it was good enough for me.
Out of sight man. I was hip and I was cooool!
Today, even though my body takes five hour lunch breaks, and I cannot remember where I put my underpants (oh, I’ve got them on), I am pleased to report that my hair is intact, and the envy of my contemporaries.
Okay, there’s almost as much in my nostrils and ears these days, but you can’t have it all.
I recently located a follically impaired buddy from my 70’s days through the magic of Facebook, and he was delighted to have re-connected, even though in his words: ‘You spent the seventies looking like a yak’s backside’.
Envy. Such an unattractive trait in a person I always think.