Hair Despair - A Political Ponytail
Sydney Morning Herald
Friday November 27, 1998
Natasha Stott Despoja has had a few bad hair days recently. That's not a criticism, just an observation. Not since Boris's pal on Rocky and Bullwinkle have I cared so profoundly for a Natasha. I'm a fan. I love clarity of vision combined with sickening youth. You don't find that in many girls, blonde or otherwise. Natasha is like Poppy King, with political motivation in place of lipstick frustration.
And she's pretty. It's not as if (as in the case of most debating-team stamp-collecting tragedies) she had to resort to politics to get a root. I figure, at the age of 22, when most girls make a big decision: underwire v sports, our Nat was thinking Labor v Democrat. I'm sure Melissa had the same dilemma, though her thinking was muddied by that bra issue. But Melissa was only deciding which one to vote for, not which one to be.
Regarding hair: our Nat has recently sported a fairly ordinary ponytail in place of the blow-dried bob. I could be wrong, but perhaps I detected abstinence not just from the blow-dryer, but shampoo as well. Women only drop hair maintenance in a crisis. Natasha's hair un-do would indicate something in the line of a party leadership change or a bad performance on Good News Week. We've had neither. That greasy ponytail can only have resulted from two fresh changes to the status quo: Lachlan Murdoch's engagement and Michael Flatley's (The Lord Of The Dance) move to Hollywood. What are the ramifications?
Let's look at it logically. 1) I am suddenly the most eligible bachelor in Sydney, if we overlook the other Jamie. 2) A horrendous film is about to be made. It's touted as a cross between Rocky and Dirty Dancing. Weigh up which is more dreadful: Sylvester Stallone tripping the light fantastic or Patrick Swayze chewing off some bloke's ear. 3) Another supermodel is about to bite the dust.
But what does it all mean to Nat? She had her eye on Lochie and is pining with disappointment. Perhaps. The prospect of The Lord's film is hair-raising. Possible. Sarah O'Hare's good fortune has brought her down with a serious case of blonde envy. Understandable. She doesn't yet know that I am alive and is despairing at the thought of never meeting anyone like me. Most likely. She's only human.
I like to make sense of the great sea of swirling world events. Order out of information chaos. I was very busy in court last week, so I failed to factor in the cricket, the axing of The Midday Show or the crisis in the Middle East but I feel I've cracked the problem with Natasha's hair. I ask Melissa.
Melissa points out that women, unlike men, are obliged, when appearing on television, to sport a "do". If Anne Fulwood or Tracey Grimshaw fronted the camera with bad roots and knots dragged back in a scrunchy, we'd all know about it. The state of John Howard's hair never rates discussion. Brian Henderson, Steve Liebmann have non-hair, invisi-hair. What's happening with their hair? Who cares. Natasha Stott Despoja was not put on this earth to impress me with her styling wand dexterity.
I concede she has a point and finally fold with "What's a scrunchy?"
She says that Nat may be preoccupied with larger issues. What? Charles' 50th? That couldn't unhair her. Ally McBeal having sex? We're all shocked. What could keep that bright young thing from her blow-dryer? Perhaps this is the first sign of a far greater problem. Could it be, that when Bronwyn Bishop first entered politics, she sported a long flowing wiglet to rival young Julie of Mod Squad, with flickbacks flashier than Farrah Fawcett. Amanda Vanstone may well have had the lustrous locks of a virginal Liz Taylor. Natasha's telltale ponytail is perhaps no coincidence of world events but just an early symptom of the inevitable ravages of Canberra existence.
Melissa is reminded why she never discusses politics with me. I mention Michael Flatley's film. She recalls my stubbornly maintaining that Denzel Washington was the reincarnation of Sidney Poitier, until she proved Poitier to be quite alive, then refuses to discuss films again under any circumstances. We sit in silence. Men and women really have nothing to talk about.
© 1998 Sydney Morning Herald