I know what caused that tear in the ozone layer. Eighties soft-rock, all-girl group – Heart. In an era of big hair, their barnets stood out, or, should I say, stood up. To prove it, satellite music channel VH1 played a medley of the band’s hits: ‘These Dreams’, ‘Alone’...
Heart split shortly after the ends of their hair did. The amount of lacquer and hairspray needed to make those manes stand to attention probably speeded-up global warming by a couple of centuries.
They, and soap series Dallas, were responsible for sending a legion of women tottering onto the streets in white stilettos, shoulder-pads and hair so frantically back-combed that the static, not their looks, attracted men.
“Didn’t we all look silly in those days?” said my wife, thumbing through an old photo album. I came out of it quite well. I only had a severe mullet to be ashamed of. And a ‘spiv-like’ pencil moustache: actually, I think I drew that on.
“I wonder if that look will ever come back?” she added. Only if you accidentally put your fingers in an electric socket.
The seventies – my era – were much more sensible. Six-inch platform heels, glitter, crushed velvet flared trousers, multi-coloured tank-tops and Afghan coats that smelt like wet dead dogs. At least you could go out in that glorious decade without the worry of looking like a berk!
