Throughout the mid-to-late 60s, I had to fight every literal inch of the way over the matter of long hair. As I practised being Mick Jagger before the bedroom mirror, it was always on the understanding that, within hours, I might be in front of that same mirror after a parentally-dictated trip to the barber.
No amount of backcombing, pulling or applications of a thickening gel called Dippety-Do could disguise the brutal shearing. I’d be left making the best of a bad job, sprucing up for a Saturday night of raging pubescent hormones and perspiration.
