Growing up, like a lot of English girls, I was what was known as a ‘dirty blonde’. (An evocative phrase, the Dirty Blondes are now variously a theatre troupe, a pop group and a restaurant.) In the summer, I would put lemon juice on my hair and watch in wonder as it bleached in the sun; I mainly did it to irritate my mother, who found overly blonde hair ‘tarty’. When I grew my impressive rack and shot up to 5ft 8in at 13, what I thought of as ‘The Bothering’ started – grown men attempting quite openly to pick me up, especially when I was wearing my school uniform. Blonde hair was the last thing I needed.
Like many a dreamy teenager of the time – I’m not sure it still happens – I was drawn to the mythical beings of Hollywood. I remember a poster I owned, jostling with pin-ups of the very contemporary David Bowie and Bryan Ferry (both themselves Hollywood obsessives), which was a drawing of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe bearing the legend WHERE HAVE ALL THE GOOD TIMES GONE? This could be seen as somewhat insensitive in our touchier times, considering that they’d both been unhappy people who died young.
But though I adored Marilyn – as one would adore a wounded animal crossed with a goddess – it was the swashbuckling brunettes of Hollywood I saw as role models: the Liz Taylors and Ava Gardners.
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