Newspaper article The Chronicle (Toowoomba, Australia)

Hang on! I Own That Hair Style

Newspaper article The Chronicle (Toowoomba, Australia)

Hang on! I Own That Hair Style

Article excerpt

I'VE often had the feeling that I was ahead of my time and now I have proof in North Korean dictator and all-round party guy Kim Jong-un.

Well, in his haircut, at least.

While every bloke in North Korea has been ordered to fashion his hair akin to that crazy mop-top look of the supreme leader, I've been talking to lawyers on whether I should sue Big Kim for breach of copyright.

Unfortunately, I hadn't registered the copyright to the hair style of my youth, because, as any family portrait of the 1960s will attest, that was my look. The "bunchy top"! A tuft of hair on top, and nothing on the sides.

Not that I had any choice, it was the way my Old Man used to cut my hair.

I'm not sure what it was about 1960s parents, but most considered themselves to be hairdressers of note and one of the most popular household accessories of the time was the home hair clippers set.

Remember those cold, stainless steel clippers that would make a woolly sheep shudder in fear?

The sheep had it good, really.

There was no tar bucket to slap on the nicks and cuts sustained around our neck and ears when we went under the shears.

My Old Man used to cut my hair under a tree in the back yard, presumably because blood was easier removed from the lawn by mowing than scrubbing from the kitchen floor.

"Stop squirming," he used to tell me, after yet another nick.

We used to live in a small village between Mt Cordelia and the Herbert River in North Queensland which had a plethora of hiding places to utilise whenever haircut day arrived.

Yet, invariably, I'd be found and dragged back to the chair. I always suspected my sister, who was never subjected to the home haircut kit, as having given me up.

At least I wasn't alone, most of my mates went through the same battle against the home haircut kits, the scars from which we carry today.

Adding to the fear of the Saturday haircut round-up was that our fathers' usually met at the pub in the next village to run the Saturday morning raffles for the local footy club.

By the time they arrived home around lunch-time, the level of co-ordination required to master the clippers had waned considerably. …

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