Craic On

When Grace Jones slapped Russell Harty she created one of TVs' iconic moments. Whatever you think of her response to her host turning his back on her, she did it with a very good hair cut. I know this because Trevor Sorbi cut her hair. It’s not that I know Trevor, but I know a man who does. He’s the man who cuts my hair.  For fifty years I’d been buying bad hair cuts from hairdressers the length and breadth of the land. After we’d settled the question of what my boyfriend did for a living and where I was going on my holidays, the conversation always followed the same turn. My hair was very hard to cut. “It’s because it’s all one colour”, they said.  So it was my fault. A few of my hair cutting foes took me by surprise by asking how I got my roots that colour. “It’s all Gods work,” I’d usually reply, my blond hair being intimately connected with my lack of sight. “I’m a natural blond,” I’d boast.  A hairdresser who can’t tell a natural blond at thirty centimetres doesn’t inspire confidence. As these increa