HOLLYWOOD SHAPED MY HAIR

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James King. HOLLYWOOD SHAPED MY HAIR

HOLLYWOOD SHAPED MY HAIR. James King

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER ONEJOHN TRAVOLTA

IN THE BEGINNING

SOME (FRANKLY DISTURBING) ACTION MOVIE MULLETS OF THE ERA

PRODUCT PLACEMENT

‘THE WAY WE ARE FEELING’

SLICK … BUT SENSITIVE

CHAPTER TWOETHAN HAWKE

WILLOWY NICENESS

HONEY, I SHRUNK THE SWEARING

BACK IN SLACK

GENERATION ‘X’

‘I RIDE MY OWN MELT’

HANGIN’ TOUGH

FACIAL HAIR HEROES – HOLLYWOOD’S MAVENS OF THE UNSHAVEN

RED ALERT

CORNISH AND PASTY

CHAPTER THREEZAC EFRON

BODY SWAPPING

SOME OTHER FAVOURITE ‘ADULTS GO BACK TO SCHOOL’ MOVIES

TWEENAGE FLICKS

THE MESSAGE

THE CELLULOID SALON – FIVE OTHER BIG SCREEN HAIRCUTS THAT DEFINED AN ERA

HOW TO GET THE DANNY ZUCKO QUIFF (BY TOP HAIR & MAKE-UP ARTIST CIONA JOHNSON-KING)

Also by James King

Copyright

About the Publisher

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Table of Contents

Cover

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By the time the boring cropped hair and grubby white vests of Bruce Willis were leaving me cold during those lunch-breaks, I had been obsessed with Grease for years. Though I was young, I have a very distinct, remarkably clear memory of dancing around to ‘Summer Nights’ in an outfit that I had specially created for the occasion. I could only manage a jumble sale denim jacket, not a leather T-Birds one, but for someone only in single figures such savvy compromise still gives me a little shiver of satisfaction. In the memory, I am in the middle of the living room, slinging my jacket over my shoulder and punching the air as Danny Zucko hit that famous final high note, standing in the bleachers. My parents are the audience. My sister is Sandy. I sing like my life depends on it, John Travolta meets Aled Jones. In reality, my fringe hangs heavy over my eyes but in my mind, I am quiffed.

It was only a matter of time before those dreams became a reality. With parents whose own childhood had been during the real Grease era (the story takes place in the 1959–60 academic year), their encouragement in getting me to slick back my hair like a rock ‘n’ roll throwback was no surprise. I must have been one of the few pre-pubescent boys to regularly receive a bottle of Cossack men’s hairspray for birthdays and Christmas. (Cossack smelled spicy, musky and manly; what some lab guy obviously thought was the essence of the eighteenth-century Slavic military, even though it was made in Folkestone, Kent. When my bottle ran out I had to borrow my Mum’s slightly less Ukranian-whiffing Silvikrin.)

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