All I Ever Wanted Was Some Sassy Manhair

Years ago when primordial ooze was still, uh, oozing, I attended a concert featuring The Cult. When I wasn't swatting pterodactyls away from my face I was adjusting my goth slut dress, lest I expose myself to the masses attending the show. Since the dress was made of a translucent cotton gauze material and I was wearing no undergarments there was no real reason for me to fuss over the position of said dress, but for some reason I was working hard to exhibit some semblance of propriety. My mother would have shriveled up into a shamed little raisin of a woman had she been aware I even owned such a garment, but I was one cagey little bitch. I left the house dressed like a Quaker, carrying my objectionable wardrobe in a backpack along with my chemistry book.

Anyway, I was about fifteen years old, dressed like a whore, and chemically baked within an inch of my life. When The Cult came onstage I practically wet myself with excitement, but a great deal of their performance is a blur. I do remember at one point that Ian Astbury dropped his pants and stood there naked, but I was too transfixed by his hair (on his head... not that hair) to pay much attention. He had the most beautiful locks I'd ever seen.

Thus began a love affair with his hair that continues to this day and defies logic or explanation. On a mission to duplicate that follicular perfection I have tried dyes, egg yolks, beer, and mayonnaise. I would have smeared my head with Alpo if necesary. Ian Astbury hair was my aesthetic holy grail, and I would not rest until I had hair like that.

I'm still not resting, dammit. And I'm really thinking about that Alpo thing.