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Clip go the shears and, by George, what a hunk

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Clip go the shears and, by George, what a hunk

Post by laetval on Fri 17 Aug 2012, 16:48


When is a man too old for floppy hair? Jocasta has the answer and it's right now. ''You're too old for it,'' she says. ''You need to get a Clooney.'' She indicates the television screen on which an interview with George Clooney is in progress.

George is by turns witty, self-deprecating, sensitive and politically right-on. He also talks of his ownership of a mansion on the shore of Italy's Lake Como and the excellent wine cellar he has amassed there. The head of the UN came the other night for dinner, he says, yet somehow this fact is disclosed in a way that doesn't sound like bragging. His grey hair is clipped in a way that makes him look both virile and intelligent.

''Yes,'' Jocasta says dreamily, ''you need to get a Clooney.''

It's unclear whether she means just the haircut. She may mean a Clooney house, a Clooney wine cellar or a Clooney line in self-deprecating banter. Maybe she'd prefer me to be an international film star with writing and directing credits and a role as an international peace envoy, all of which may be difficult to achieve from my current starting point.

A week later she returns to the subject. ''The floppy hair has to go. It would be fine for a man in his 20s. George is your age and he has a Clooney. Besides which, your hair reminds me of your father.''

Over the years I've been forced to modify much of my behaviour just because Jocasta says ''it reminds me of your father''. Stripy shirts, hounds-tooth jackets and drinking heavily before breakfast - all have had to go. But the hair? Whatever his other faults, my father had a magnificent head of hair. As he strolled down to his favourite Bondi bar in the late afternoon, it was like watching a peacock in courtship mode.

Still, it could be that Jocasta is right. I first went for the style when I was about 19. I walked into a place in suburban Brisbane and asked for a ''Christopher-Isherwood-Cambridge-in-the-1920s-thanks'' and when the hairdresser looked puzzled, added: ''You know, floppy, like Bryan Ferry.''

I now look in the mirror, the young hair flopped over the ageing lined forehead, the skin a little pasty, the eyes rheumy. It's the look summed up by the phrase ''faded roue''.

More to the point, why shouldn't I bend to Jocasta's will? I've asked Jocasta to change aspects of herself over the years. I use the phrase ''it reminds me of your mother'' but delivered at such low volume that there is credible deniability, as in ''I said what? No way. I didn't say anything. I just have a cough. Besides which, if something reminded me of your mother, that would be a plus, my darling.''

If I perform this act with sufficient doe-eyed sincerity, Jocasta becomes convinced that she's hearing some voice of wisdom from within and, soon enough, change is achieved. Within a week, I find she's abandoned her mother's hairstyle, choice of jacket or tendency to cook kippers for breakfast.

I'm sitting out the back with a glass of red when Jocasta approaches me. ''I think you need to go and see Shane,'' she says with the sombre tone with which one recommends a visit to a chaplain, funeral director or tax accountant.

Shane's our hairdresser. I make an appointment for the weekend. On the morning of the visit, an email pops up from Jocasta, who is using the computer in the other room. It has nothing but an internet link.

I click on the address. It's a website, greyhairstyles.blogspot.com.au, and it contains several pictures of George Clooney with a Clooney. Dutifully I print out the best one, take it with me and present it to Shane.

''I want this,'' I say.

He says: ''I know.'' Jocasta has already spoken to him about it. Admittedly she had her own hair cut here a week before, so this may not be quite as Pussy Riot as it sounds.

Shane gets to work, the photo of Clooney propped up against the mirror. I can sense other clients pointing and laughing as they walk past this hairdressing diorama. It should have a title: ''The Optimistic in Search of the Miraculous.''

Shane's scissors clip away. ''More of a shearer than a stylist,'' he observes as vast quantities of hair fall to the ground. Whole squads of apprentices will be required to remove the detritus. Again the diorama needs a title: ''Here Lieth One Man's Youth.''

Yet slowly, as Shane clips, something marvellous happens. From the ruins of my face something new emerges. Younger? Certainly. Less try-hard? Oh, yes. More intelligent? Oh, at least 15 IQ points.

I stare into the mirror as Shane finally puts down his scissors.

''I look like Clooney.''

''Well, you just had to ask.''

I arrive home and Jocasta is waiting for me. She swoons as I walk up the corridor, grabbing onto a bookshelf for support.

''It's amazing,'' she says, ''I hardly recognise you.''

I gather her in an embrace and lean forward for the kiss.

''Oh, George,'' she purrs, ''it's been so long.''

I should go in for a clip more often.
Clooney maximus fantasticus

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Re: Clip go the shears and, by George, what a hunk

Post by it's me on Fri 17 Aug 2012, 17:04

funny Very Happy
it's me
George Clooney fan forever!

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