I was as a kid. They called me Brillo Pad
, cauliflower-head, Floss and much worse. I longed for long, straight, shining tresses
, I was given a dull, lifeless mop!
It was May 1971, a date etched on my soul; I was 13 and attending my first real pop concert. The stage was dark, the noise from the audience was rising, the whistling began. Suddenly a single spotlight illuminated a tiny elfin figure sitting cross-legged on the stage. There he was, Marc Bolan, my idol, my love, my dream guy. A mass of black curls framed his beautiful face, he smiled (at me, I longed to believe), and the roar of the crowd almost drowned out his quivering voice as he started to sing Deborah.
Almost overnight I was suddenly the luckiest girl in school. My hair was the envy of friends and enemies alike. T.Rex were the 'in' band and everyone wanted curls. I stopped trying to brush mine straight and let my ringlets rock and roll.
Six years later I shed a few tears when I heard that Marc had died when his car crashed into a tree in Putney, London. Although he was no longer my idol, you don't forget your first love or the guy that made you feel beautiful.
I'm older and wiser now, but my curls still frame my face, my friends still covet them. To this day the tree in Putney is strewn with yellow ribbons.