Managing your mane

Although I am often mistaken for a much younger harlot, side effects
I am, in fact, forty years old. As you might suspect, this is an age that produces all sorts of paranoid questions. Viz. what happened to my magnificent career? Why did she hide the strap-on? How much am I spending on my hair?

While the answers to two of these questions elude me, a third is easily solved. I have calculated the lifetime cost of my coiffure and, frankly, the sum makes me want to stab a hairdresser named Davin (yes, Davin) directly in the neck with a pair of styling scissors.

Haircuts are expensive, trying and, for the most part, total shit.

You might THINK your hair looks fabulous. However, this is a delusion formed in equal parts by (a) the routine blandishments of Davin along the lines of ìYouíre really going to tear it up in the club on Friday, girl, whoopî; (b) the drugs he put in your awful salon coffee; and (c) the dissonance and guilt of giving $80 to a bungling fucker who has taken far, far too many hits of amyl to locate his own penis ñ let alone the source of your cowlick.

But, dear, seriously. Your haircut is probably crap. Take a candid photograph of yourself. No. Not one of those come-hither MySpace motion-blurs, where all I can see is your cleavage. A real mug shot that reveals your crowning glory is, in fact, a big stinking turd.

He charged you $80 for this.

The Missus and I agree that as we aged our haircuts became progressively crappier. Accordingly, we advanced to more expensive studios, where the smell of botanical products and the gratis glasses of flat Yellowglen promised sexy hair. We didnít get sexy hair. I asked a South Yarra pouffe for ìBlunt punk chic revival. You know, like Deborah Harry.î The prick ended up giving me Deborah Messing. This, of course, would have been fine if I were an immaculately dressed fag hag with an endless supply of meth and a stylist with blow-dryer on call.

I donít know what instructions the Missus offered. But they undoubtedly were not, ìHereís a picture of my Great Aunt Ida. If you could somehow make my head resemble hers ñ note the thinning hair and remnants of disastrous perm ñ Iíll probably give you a blow job.î

Anyhow. We donít bother any more. I buy her a bottle of Irish Cream and ask her to give me the sort of hair that belongs to someone sheíd like to fuck. Fuelled by sugar, lust and alcohol, she does. Now I finally look like Deborah Fucking Harry.

Find a girlfriend or stylist who can follow instructions as simple as these. If you crave colour, donít do it yourself, you ninny. Hurt bitches with nice highlights until they give up the name of their colourist.

As for the rest, use decent product.

If you colour your hair, for chrissake use a colour preserving conditioner and shampoo. Natralia make some decent stuff. And haircare haven Aveda is to be trusted with Color Conserve. Beach whores and water babies might also use the Sun Care Hair & Body cleanser.

If you have curls, tart them up. The Missus has some lovely curls, which have been amply slutted by a range released last month, Innova Curl. She also likes C-Curl from MOP. And, in fact, we both fancy the grassy smell and smoothness that MOP shampoos confer. Current favourite is the Basil Mint. We also dig NZ organic brand Trilogy and new sustainable Australian line GROWN.

Oh, goodness. I havenít even told you about stylist techniques and products. These may or may not involve horrid Irish liqueur. Until next time: give Davin the middle finger.