Watching the ultra-magnificent The White Stripes – The Carpenters on Beer – it occured to me that one of the major obstacles to my achieving greatness has been my hair. Watching those two cats on stage tonight – whilst not detracting from their musical prowess – it has to be noted that neither seems to care much about their locks. Good job too, as a combination of damp and heat can lead to only one thing, that even John Frieda in his most dedicated moments could not ease: frizz. Yet this has not prevented them from being outstanding.
As for myself, many has been the time that I may have avoided greatness for fear of how my hair might look – clubs, holidays, stage appearances, lovemaking – all evaded for fear of 70’s hair re-appearing. And if I had not cared think how many more times the door of opportunity might have knocked. The free-est I have ever felt is dancing in the rain knowing it would ruin my locks but not caring a jot. Finally, as I realise that I’m too old now for my looks to matter, my hair care is fading and so today the storms came, and for some reason I didn’t shy away from the rain and I felt like a massive weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Yesterday, the same, at the swimming pool, I just thought ‘bugger it’ and let my hair get wet. Freedom.
Yet there they are up on the pyramid stage, hair all curly and bad, and playing like fucking demons. Wavy, kinky and fabulous.