Hair Today

I have been corresponding with George Clooney lately. It has been a one-sided conversation, which I guess is not a conversation at all. George seems curiously reticent to respond to even the simplest question I have asked of him—that is, how does he keep his hair in great shape. It is important that I know. It is one the world’s great, yet largely unheralded, mysteries. Why? Well, think about it: when you and I get a haircut, it is plainly obvious. We have that recently shorn look, and there is nothing that even the best hairdresser can do to avoid that—and I have one of the best. Yet George Clooney doesn’t seem to have that problem. His hair always looks impeccable and, more important, exactly the same each and every day. How? Does he get his hair cut every day or every week? Does he have his own barber—sorry, hairdresser—on staff travelling with him? I imagine he could afford that. In George’s business looking well-groomed is of course important, unless you are Brad Pitt. In my business, it is not. My business is writing. And, as of today, it is a full-time business. Nobody much cares what a writer looks like. In fact, the dishevelled shambolic look is a popular conception of writers. It is, however, a misconception. Today’s writer—whether working in the commercial or creative sectors—must adopt and maintain a professional demeanour and approach to his or her work. Gone are the days when the popular conception, and expectation, of writers was a solitary soul starving in a garret.  That eroded the day Ernest Hemingway shot himself and ended with the advent of GST. All the best advice on writing, and that usually comes from, of all people Stephen King, is that writers must be highly disciplined and treat their “craft” as a job—a profession. If that means turning up to work at the same time every day and even wearing a tie—so be it. Gone too are the days of writing just for the sake of it without expectation of a productive outcome. A prime example being writing to George Clooney. The one resilient foible a writer will allow him or herself—other than the right and faculty to use the word foible—is that in the creative arena they can create worlds and escape into them at will. Though again, taking a pragmatic and professional approach, that facility should be enjoyed only sparingly, and only when wearing a tie as a reminder that there is also a real world. However, in all other respects writers are no different from anybody else. No different from carpenters, accountants, truck drivers or televangelists. They are different from politicians, but so is everybody else. In fact, if one was to look at it in that light your Fryday correspondent is virtually indistinguishable from Mr Clooney—apart from the hair of course.