Every so often, you read about an unfortunate youth who has burnt his or her head to a crisp by the application of some patent beauty product. There was one the other day, who’d frazzled half her face with Boot’s hair dye. Of course, the probable cause was an allergic reaction, rather than any failing by the esteemed chemist - but it just goes to show. You should be careful when you take the chemical route to cosmetic enhancement. I certainly do. Sure, there’s some peroxide in my hair dye, but otherwise it’s as organic as you can get.
Oh yes, I dye my hair – which, admittedly, could sound sad in a man of fifty-one summers. But I like to think that I fly in the face of critics by making no secret of it. You see, I haven’t tried to disguise the fact that my gravy-coloured locks have turned salt-and-pepper. Instead, I’ve made them artificial, rock-star, alley-cat black – all topped off with a silver-grey streak – so that I look (I hope) like the Addam’s Family’s undertaker cousin.
Actually, the streak is the only real thing about my coiffure. It grew back that way, after a nasty spell of alopecia in my twenties – and in fact, it led me to the bottle. Once upon a time, friends would tease me by saying: ‘Your colourist missed a bit.’ But my pal Amanda said it was a positive to be accentuated. ‘Darken the rest,’ she advised. So with rubber gloves and toothbrush, the transformation was effected. And now, when I walk down the street, people stop me and ask if I’m a musician. ‘Yes,’ I lie, since they seem to find the profession so interesting.
I have to say, my own life has become much more interesting since Dye-Day. I get the respect owed at least to a professional assassin. The other day, I even got a compliment from Nicky Haslam. ‘Very clever,’ he said. ‘People notice the grey, and not at the black, so it doesn’t look too obvious.’ Maybe not in his universe, I thought. Then again, Nicky glories in faking it, and maybe he has a point.
We live in a world where the boundaries between appearance and reality have become so hopelessly blurred that nobody knows what’s what any more. As a junior silver surfer, I’m old enough to subscribe to Saga magazine – yet I’m the sharpest I’ve looked since I outgrew The Face. Perhaps I should be troubled by this turn of events. But for the moment, I think I’ll just enjoy the confusion of this new grey – or should that be black? – area.
