For three and a half weeks in 1989, I had a fascination with and certain horniness for men with long hair. I should very much like to point out at this juncture that this excludes all forms of mulletry, but includes jaw- or shoulder-length tresses. It was, I venture, the heyday of jeezly horrible metal hair, hair spray, power chords, and Maybelline (TM). Although I did not know very many young men who wore foundation so thick they appeared two-dimensional, I did know several young men who thought Spandex (TM) was the BEST INVENTION EVAR. Yes, yes, they were wrong. But weren’t we all a little wrong in the 80s? Remember stirrup pants? I rest my case.
At any rate, for those three and a half weeks, I did my very best to understand the plight of the downtrodden and much-maligned headbanger. I tried to commiserate. I bought a Guns ‘N’ Roses poster and put it up on my wall. I showed my mother a picture of Axl Rose and told her he was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. She said, “He looks like he needs a shower”.
He really did look like he needed a shower.
She noted my GNR poster and said, “you know, when hippies stuck their tongues in light sockets, they looked just like that.”
I petulantly, and attempting not to smile, asked what her point was.
“Just that it’s all been done before.”
The only reason my fascination with and inflamed loins for boys with metal hair lasted three and a half weeks was because in the second week my mother told me that it had all been done before. I was fully prepared to bring home a dizzying succession of shaggy suitors. Then Whitesnake happened:
I realised I could never take any of those men seriously. Well. Maybe the guy with the camera.