Having curly hair

Having curly hair

In the sixties,

Before Jimi Hendrix came over

From America to set fire

To his guitar and play Sunshine of Your Love

Over Lulu’s end-of-show song

On Saturday night television,

Was tough.

Having a woman old enough to be my sister

Or worse,

My mother,

Ruffle their fingers

Through it

Bunching the curls as if they were grapes

Getting close enough

For me to smell the Lily of the Valley

And saying how lovely it was

“Oh, what a girl wouldn’t do to have hair like this.”

I think they meant it as a compliment,

Or it might have been a way to touch

Virgin skin,

Who knows what their motive was,

Even when they puckered up

And kissed the top of my head,

But some didn’t wear deodorant

Believed menthol cigarettes

Were as good an idea as midday vodka,

Or passed wind when they sat,

Which lingered

Way longer than the interaction,

(Aunt Hilda could kill flowers and

Strip paint from the walls)

It was almost as abusive an experience

As uncle Kieth

Tickling my privates

When I still wore short trousers.

Why didn’t my parents pull that?

Or was everybody naive

Before Jimmy Saville.

Operation Yew tree

Wasn’t even a branch

Of the police force until I began

To lose my hair

I never get to have anybody

Run their fingers across

The bald spot,

Thank goodness,

But Hendrix was a godsend.

To say I let my hair down

Would be an inaccuracy

As it grew out

Like a space helmet

Big and round

An Afro if you like

Without the need for a perm

Or a spray to hold it firm

I would strut my stuff with

All the other hipsters

Barefoot in the park

At home on King’s Road

Pulling an all-nighter

At the Lyceum

Cool for a while

Until skinheads and hair gell

Killed the mop top

The only consolation being

I was never in thrall to a mullet

Which looked a lot like a toupee

Worn back to front.

A combover for a wild rover

In need of direction

When I had a sense of style,

For a while

Crocodile.