Hello,
So good to see Lulu in our magazine. I love her zest for life – if we could bottle it, I’d have a monthly subscription.
I’ve met her on many occasions and years ago she saved my life – well, my hair. Is anything more important?
I’d had long hair for ever but decided at the grand age of 29 to go for the big chop.
Instead of doing my homework, as I would now, I allowed my ex-husband Peter Powell’s hairdresser to perform the restyle.
I was presenting Top Of The Pops in a week’s time and with a new outfit, my new look would be complete.
Pete took me along, had his hair cut first, then it was me. Chop went the scissors into my long, wavy hair.
That British Thing . . .
I was slightly shocked as my hair sprang outwards due to its lack of weight, but trusted that the stylist would go on to create a masterpiece. That, though, largely seemed to be it.
I did that British thing – said “Thank you”, paid, went to the car and burst into tears.
Poor Pete was coming up with all the desperate lines a chap feeling a little guilty would.
“It’ll look better in the morning, everything does. . . you’ll have washed and styled it yourself. . .
“If the worst comes to the worst, it’ll grow out. . . I still love you.”
I looked like a mushroom – my neck as the stalk, with this profusion of unlayered hair forming a canopy on top. How could I live like this, let alone present the nation��
