Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Grease, dribbling down granddad’s comb. Scented and stylish, not the under-the-car kind. Slather, gather, fingers run through and feel the real reason we dressed armchairs with antimacassars. Elevating to Pomade, calling to mind parading Pomeranians. Next wax, sweet smelling bee-nectar, not the ear-dug variety. Brylcreem, brilliant dream of masculinity in a pot. The revelation in the eighties was green gel. I still remember the smell of my brothers before a night out. After that mousse…S…S…Studio Lines, Loreal unapologetically ripping off Mondrian’s bold squares. Back to basics with Bed Head in the nineties, artfully dishevelled, stiffened to shape in any way. Punks had to use super glue in the seventies, but this stuff similarly rocked, was rocklike, just avoid any romance with rocks, no hands through hair. Then to the last iteration I’ve been sold and I’ll confess I’m a sucker; Magic Dust. Just like Jack’s beans, it’s incredible. A little sprinkle and I can shape my hair into whatever I want. I don’t need Edward to Scissorhand me. And handy now as soon we’ll all have hair like Cousin IT. I’m more and more tempted by Mr K’s clippers. I might look mad and my colleagues may think I’ve Britney Speared myself when we video conference but at least I wouldn’t be sculpting these straggly tendrils into a semblance of sanity. And there’s always wigs.