JOUBERT MALHERBE
WE LIVE in interesting – if somewhat baffling – times, I thought to myself while enjoying a late-morning spring excursion to the mall in funky Doringkloof.
Starship had just kicked off that catchy tune that goes “we built this city on rock 'n roll” when I was approached by an apprehensive-looking centre manager. “The EFF are on their way again,” he confided sombrely when I asked him what the matter was.
He spoke just as a heavily armed security guard, bearing an automatic rifle, came past. He was part of the team busy servicing one of the ATMs at the mall. Whenever I spot these guys going about their business, I usually give them a smile, just to show that I have no ill intentions.
The sight of the armed guard, along with recent antics of the “fighters” when they toyi-toyied outside the local Clicks store, made me realise that it was not often that the real world disturbed the tranquillity of the locals.
BTW, the above-mentioned Starship, have had several incarnations. They were originally known as Jefferson Airplane, which I really fancied. They rocked the Woodstock Festival with their great song, Volunteers.
The chorus goes: “(We’ve) got a revolution”, which I thought would’ve been rather apt in this day and age. Vocalist Grace Slick was a belter of note.
Anyway, to get back to the matters of the day: several commentators have been weighing in about the politics of hair. I don’t have much hair, but the ones that are there are pretty long and they’re in a pretty sad state. Hair has been quite a big deal in my life from quite a young age. Even from before the controversial musical, Hair, saw the light in 1968; you know, “Hair hair, gimme a head with hair/shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen”.
I first got into trouble about the length of my hair when I was in Standard 4 in 1964, which was when Beatlemania was at its height. We used to get a monthly magazine at the school called Patrys, Afrikaans for goshawk.
One of the editions carried a picture of the group disembarking from a plane at some windswept airport abroad. John Lennon’s hair, in particular, was being blown all over the place in the photograph, which I guess was taken while they were on tour; it was probably syndicated by an international magazine.
Today, I can remember my teacher, a Mr Marx, I kid you not, remarking that Lennon’s hair looked like “an explosion in a mattress factory” (verbatim). It was right there and then that I decided that, hey, this is for me… and I’ve never looked back. At high school, I regularly got into trouble over the state of my barnet and I was once caned by the deputy head for it. He wrote my name in his notebook, adding: “Transgression: he hasn’t shaved and his hair is too long.”
Beneath it he wrote “Punishment: two cuts”. He used a cane and it wasn’t really that sore, but I was beyond fury. I resolved in my 16-year-old mind that I would get my own back one day and I would start growing my hair as soon as I could. At university, my hair got very long and I also grew a big beard, which earned me the nickname of “Moses”, which some people still call me.
As I intimated above, the hairs that I now have left are in a pretty sad state. When the recent controversy about that silly hair ad broke, I figured it would have been better if they had taken a pic of mine to illustrate “damaged” hair.
Still, hopefully lessons have been learnt all round. I’m glad that the parties seem to have thrashed out the matter.