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Words: Dickon Edwards
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 I am someone whom strangers react to in public.
The reaction varies. They take my photo, they shout something at me, they gather around with their friends and point at me, they throw things at me. One wouldn't have thought that the sight of someone with bleached hair, a suit, and make-up could raise a single solitary hair of an eyebrow in 21st Century London, but it does. I choose to look the way I do because I like to appear as beautiful as possible, and to seem externally how I feel internally. It's all about cutting to the chase, to not pass myself as anyone other than myself.
I also maintain my look so my friends can spot me in a crowd, and my enemies can see me coming. The attention of strangers is unintentional, though it has become as natural to me as breathing. I neither solicit it, nor avoid it. And I am always grateful when the attention is kindly.
My bleached hair is my main accidental trademark. Someone somewhere decided
that bleached hair on men can only be worn in one way. The spiky, punkish fashion. I, however, wear mine unspiked and combed severely into a side-parting. Result: revolution. It is far more Punk Rock to not have a punk rock hairdo.
At a bus stop on Camden Road, a middle-aged American visitor turns to me and says "you remind me of Kim Novak in Bell, Book and Candle." That's his opening line.
If they are over 30, they say I look like Andy Warhol. Though they never say when.Mr Warhol has been dead for over fifteen years. What can they mean? If they are between the ages of 25 and 45 and know nothing about music, they say I look like Gary Numan. If they are between the ages of 25 and 45 and know too much about music, they say I look like David Sylvian. If they are under 20, the say I look like Eminem. The only man with bleached hair that young people have apparently heard of.
The club Kash Point is my choice haunt of the moment, where the ratio of the dressed up to the Default Men is admirably high. Default Men offendeth mine eye. There they go, happy to go about London unshaven. Happy to wear ghastly trainers (there is no other kind). They can't ALL be athletes.
Still, I don't judge Default Men to their face. Which is odd, because they are only too happy to judge me to mine. On the tube, recently. I am walking down a long station corridor. A man passes me on the other side, then on seeing me starts walking backwards along with me, trying to get eye contact. It won't work. He doesn't call out. Later, I am sitting on the train while it's at a station. Another Default Man bangs on the tube window nearest me. I don't look. He walks off, and the train moves on.
There are those who think I choose to appear like this because I want to be famous, to mingle at exclusive parties with celebrities. But that simply isn't true. I'd much rather spend an evening with a group of five unknown art hooligans who don't really "do" anything, than be surrounded by a hundred dressed-down famous and important types. Again, it's the men who let the side down. Famous women still tend to dress up in public, even though they don't need to. Famous men often grow ghastly proto-beards, and sport awful trainers and t-shirts. There really is NO excuse for dressing down in a club, but many men still do it. One can see many a stylish girl on the arms of an absolute gorilla of no woman born. They can't ALL be drug dealers.
As a self-confessed narcissist, you might think I prefer those around me to be less aesthetically appealing, in order to make me look better by comparison. But it simply isn't true. I want everyone to look beautiful. Or at the very least, to shave regularly.
Central London. I am standing alone, waiting for someone. Three people stop and point at me.
Girl: Oh! I thought he was a model! Oy, Look!
She beckons her companions over, and all three of them gather around me like I'm a sideshow attraction. Which I suppose I am.
Girl 2: Oh yeah! I thought he was a dummy!
Me: No, I'm just frozen stiff.
Girl 1: He's got make-up on!
Man: Go on. Do it again?
Me: Do what?
Man: Stop moving again?
I stare at the man and stop blinking.
Man (squinting): Oh.... yeah.
Girl 1: He reminds me of that Eighties band? What's their name? No, they did that song? Oh yeah!
She sings, loudly, right in my face.
Girl 1: “GOLD! ALWAYS BELIEVE IN YOUR SOUL! YOU'VE GOT THE POWER TO KNOW! YOU'RE INDESTRUCTIBLE!"
She skips away with the others, still singing.
I believe her every word. |
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