When almost all were seated and before the lights went out, I surveyed the arena. I had never realised until that moment what sheep we had all become when it comes to fashion. While I sat people watching I observed that almost all the female audience had poker straight hair, low rise jeans and a strategically positioned diamante thong. The only non-compliant women were the few golden oldies and me. I was wearing stretchy waistband jeans over Bridget Jones inspired knickers and sticky nipple pads, sexy eh? I had managed to wedge my eight-month heavy baby bump into the same seat as my backside and that was all I cared about. My naturally straight hair fell about my shoulders in a curly mass because I had been too knackered to dry it after showering the night before so I ended up with a pillow-coiffed mop, which was too painful to untangle. I have to say though it felt rather liberating to be the individual among the herd, ignoring the probability that my husband would rather a bleeter be sat next to him than old cranky pants me!
When did curly hair become the social equivalent of a post-curry house fart? This is a subject I have pondered ever since I attended a Christine Aguillara Concert 3 years ago, where I narrowly avoided a punch up with a couple of big bummed (yes, straight haired) bimbos.
So these Barbie Wannabes were waggling their big butts at my eye-level, getting their groove on to the shows warm up act The Black Eyed Peas. I thought it typical of my luck that the entire auditorium was seated except for these blimmin dolly dancers in front of me. I was pleasant enough for the first twenty minutes and then I’d had enough! Grabbing a diamante thong in each hand, I yanked upwards hard enough to garrotte their kittys then pulled backwards & pinged slingshot style. When the women turned around in stunned horror, I let rip in a hormonal rant about how we had not paid sixty quid on tickets just to see their backsides and quite frankly I would not have paid so much as sixty pence for that ‘pleasure’ SO SIT DOWN! At which point some flammin Black Eyed Pea bloke pounded the mic “I wanna see everybody on their feet, stand up ya’ll come on “’where is the love”’. The entire auditorium stood up bar Hubby and me, heads level with a hundred bums, cringing.
I fondly remember the days of the Kylie curls. The cool ‘do’ during the early nineties was to have permed, crispy hair with this bizarre skyscraper fringe. Industrial strength VO5 gel spray in a pump action bottle (as society was having an ozone friendly phase) was used in abundance whilst we scrunched our locks into a diffuser attachment. The waft of hairspray and Exclamation perfume made us seriously sexy sheep as we blew our whistles and did the running man in our Lycra cycling shorts with the fluorescent stripe down the side.
These girls these days don’t know what they missed out on as they saunter in their smock tops, leggings and poker straight blah hair. Ok, I do admit they look a darn sight smarter and attractive than we did in our post punk flunk, but apart from a sparse few Moshers lurching around, where is the individuality in modern maidens?
Is it that, as a public we have lost all sense of self? or do we simply prefer to wear a uniform of ‘Cosmopolitan recommends’ for fear of negative judgement? I believe that the magazine culture is, for the main part, responsible! Weekly editions such as Heat and Now ridicule the slightest hint of uniqueness or character as a failing despite having previously built up the individual as a hero for daring to be different in the first place. People’s careers have been built, via the media on such shallow qualifications as what clothes they wear or for sporting the haircut we should apparently all covet. But us local folk should embrace the fact that we lead far more substantial lives which admittedly may never see us gracing the glossies for wearing ‘that dress’ but thankfully we will never be ‘shamed’ for revealing ‘that sweat stain’ either. Our careers and loves are achievements which nobody can put a caption on before taking it from us.
I believe celebrities lead pretty uninspired, shallow existences. After all, their futures are at the mercy of us, the public. The majority of words spoken are not their own and their lives are dictated by an editors pen. Instead of imitating these people, pining for what we think they have, we should spend that energy realising and appreciating our own achievements. We have the luxury of living free from intense scrutiny so why therefore do we clone ourselves on those who have done nothing worthy of our admiration further than singing or shopping. Live, love, act, dress and style your hair in a way that suits you, not an actor or editor. Then any admiration that comes your way will be given out of true respect for you and nobody else.