Blondes Have More Fun
I been thinking of going blonde. What d’you reckon? I mean, it’s the in thing now, isn’t it – there’s that David van Day from Dollar, then there’s he chap in Duran Duran and the two blokes from Bucks Fizz. Not to mention Kim Wilde, Debbie Harry and Dolly Parton!Now, I don’t want you to think I’m name dropping but that was who I interviewed last week, as a matter of fact! Which is what got me to thinking about going blonde in the first place. No, no, I don’t mean Dolly Parton. I’d love to have interviewed her but that opportunity has not yet arisen. It was other one who I interviewed, the chap I mentioned before - you know, that David van Day, the bloke in Dollar. The one who looks a bit like a gerbil in a dinner jacket.
Nice bloke, as a matter of fact. Lives in a mews house in a little cobbled street in one of the more fashionable slum areas of London. I’d tell you where it is but I dare not on account of the ravening hordes of underwear-obsessed fans who would no doubt descend upon the poor chap in a lustful frenzy fuelled by cheap beer and barley wine and whisk off his boxer shorts at some unearthly hour of the morning. Ah no, it is a heavy burden of secrecy which we gentlemen of the pop music press must bear and wild horses would not drag David’s address out of me - though it is quite possible that a few banana daiquiris and packet of pork scratching might loosen my tongue...
But I digress.
The burning question is: ash or platinum?
I have to say that I’m a bit of a traditionalist in these matters. ‘Honey dawn’, ‘Silver shimmer’ and ‘Arctic moon’ hold no attractions for me. As far as I am concerned, if you are going blonde there are only two shades worth the time of day: ash (à la Kim Wilde) or platinum (à la Dolly). David van Day veers more towards the ash end of the spectrum, I’d say. Another possibility is that he just hadn’t washed his hair when I met him. I always think ‘ash’ is just a polite way of saying ‘dirty platinum’, really.
Oh, what the heck! Platinum it is! By Jove! If it’s good enough for Dolly, it’s good enough for me. I don’t mean just streaks, neither. I’ve already got a few streaks in, anyway. It’s a nightmare having them done. They put this rubber cap over your head and stick crocket hooks through little holes to pull clumps of hair through. Usually they also stick a few hooks gratuitously in your scalp while they at it! Then they plaster all the bleach over the whole lot and the theory is that you end up with only the clumps sticking through the holes going blonde. Which, in theory, is supposed to look attractive. Though, in practice... well, suffice to say, my streaked days are now a thing of the past.
Marilyn reckons I should get myself some ‘extensions’ which, in case you don’t know, are bits of other people’s hair that you tie on to your own. Yuck! Why would I want other people’s old hair dangling round my head...?
I suppose I could do the Limahl thing. Black on the sides, blonde on top. The Old English Sheepdog-look, I call it. Makes me think of non-drip paint whenever I set eyes on him.
Oh, and speaking of paint, did you ever clap your eyes on those Spandau chaps in that video – Paint Me Down? Rolling about starkers they were, on Hampstead Heath. An activity which, if you are not very careful indeed, can easily be misconstrued.
Which reminds me, I was about to tell you all about Kevin’s latest exploits. As if the baby oil and the snake wasn’t bad enough, he’s now started taking an unhealthy interest in ostrich feathers.
Oh, you’ll have to excuse me. My phone’s ringing. I’ll give you the lowdown on all that later...
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