Liverpool Stories
The stories on this site are not included in my book.
The tales are snapshots of my life in Liverpool, the home of the Beatles, and the echo chamber of the Mersey Sound that in the sixties resonated around the planet like an acoustic Tsunami. The stories cover a period of 50 odd years and so they touch on every aspect of my life from the rites of passage to the passing of youth. I hope you enjoy them.
Long haired lover from Liverpool - Jimmy Osmond didn't have a clue
By John Williams
Before unisex stylists ever hit the high street the divide between men and women was as sharp as the parting in David Niven's hair. Women had their locks tended by hair dressers while men attended the barber's, where superfluous hair could be shaved, singed or apparently, if there was a quartet available, serenaded.
I had my first haircut at a barber's in Dovecote but all I can recall was having to perch on a highly polished plank of wood that was employed to raise the level of the chair to a height appropriate for an infant. Apart from that it was no different from any other barber's shop I ever attended because in those days all such establishments shared a uniformity, from the photographs of perfect heads of hair that adorned the walls, to the floors made greasy with snippets of shorn locks.
I never did venture into a ladies' hair salon but I can't imagine they would have endured treading ankle deep in oftimes greasy hair, which sight may or may not have provided the inspiration for shag pile carpet. Women are naturally fastidious, whereas men, I suppose, are congenital slobs.
I can remember with envy the young men who would point to a photograph on the barber's wall and demand to have their hair cut to the same sculpted excellence as that exhibited by the model. My own hair was so fine and lifeless that it would have been absurd of me to ask for, say, a Tony Curtis as almost every style I attempted to emulate ended up with me looking like either Curly, Larry or Mo.
A well meaning friend once tried unsuccessfully to console me with the notion that a good picture doesn't need a frame...but I couldn't help thinking that even a cartoon needs a border.
Most of the barbers I encountered are faceless now, but there was one who is indelibly etched into my memory. He was a Greek Cypriot called John, who had a shop in Lodge Lane and who owned a head of hair that would surely have been a target for Jason had the latter failed to bag the golden fleece.
John was a pleasant man, and anxious to make his clients feel at ease. One day, as he was trying to massage some life into my scalp he made the casual obervation that I would never go bald. Far from putting me at ease his remark made me sit bolt upright as a thought screamed through my brain,
'Christ. I'm only eighteen. Why is he even mentioning the possibility!'
I can only think now that given his limited command of English he had really meant to say that I would never go completely bald.
As the years passed and my fine hair became even finer, to the point of anorexia, I was relieved that Tony Curtis had ceased to be a role model for young men and supinely grateful for the emergence of those less than hirsute heroes, Stephen Stills, Marlon Brando and Yul 'skip the Brylcreem' Brynner.
The hippies were the answer to my youthful prayers because in their eyes the only thing that mattered with regard to hair was that it was grown long. It didn't matter to them that my hair was less substantial than the average spider's web. As long as my limp locks fell below my shoulders I was cool; and although my hair grew tiredly, almost apologetically, grow it did!
It goes without saying that between 1969 and 1977 I was no longer visiting any barber. Compared to me Samson was a regular.
Then, at Christmas 1975, I was introduced to a young Londoner by the name of David Miller. He was the boyfriend of my girl friend's school chum and we had all agreed to meet in Yates' Wine Lodge in Blackpool. David, who was an affable albeit quiet man, was a hairdresser. Well, more than that because he had tended the hair of women such as Jean Shrimpton, the sixties super model as he had worked for Vidal Sassoon when the whole Swinging London thing had begun to gather momentum.
As we drank hot toddies to counter the arctic chill that swept the Golden Mile it became clear that David didn't conform to any stereotype regarding hairdressers as he was enamoured of beautiful women and fast cars, which is why he was dating a model and driving some huge sports car. I wondered why a man so seemingly blessed was subdued and it turned out that he and his lady were splitting up.
I couldn't bring myself to be sympathetic though as I was still reeling from his girlfriend's admission that she had spent the whole of the previous evening ensconced in front of a mirror where, with the aid of a voluminous make up case, she had tried out a variety of new faces. Talk about shallow. Such behaviour, even from a photographic model, made Zsa Zsa Gabor seem deep.
It must have been my time for meeting people from walks of life I'd never remotely trod because the next day I found myself in the kitchen of a semi detached house in Cleveleys swapping notes with a young musician who was in the throes of divorce.
I had recently been through the same minefield and so was able to empathise with him as he was anxious about losing contact with his young child. He was a key board player who went by the name of Blue Weaver, and was just off to America to join a band that was trying to resurrect its former glory. After he joined them both he and the Bee Gees did rather well. I suppose life is all about staying alive.
About a year later David wrote to me and said he would be in Liverpool that Easter and would I care to go for a drink with him. I was delighted and readied myself for a 'session'. However, that Easter Saturday was notable for its sobriety as I ended up traipsing in and out of hairdressing salons because David was intent on having a busman's holiday.
At one salon, I think it was Andrew Collinge's, David was introduced to a young lady and spent a few minutes in conversation about, well, hair. As we were leaving St John's market David remarked that he hadn't got on too well with the young woman. I thought to myself that it might have helped if they'd talked about something other than hairdo's, but that was about the limit of my musing as I was mentally preparing for Easter Sunday and the task of creating a dinner for David and four of my mates.
My mother had presented me with a turkey and so I had plenty of food when the clan gathered on that Sunday. Unfortunately the previous evening had been spent on a pub and club crawl with David, who had shed his businessman's persona as soon as the last hairdressing salon had closed and the first saloon bar had opened. The result was that I attempted a complicated dinner through a fog of alcohol.
I still blush when I recall David's gentle complaint that the turkey was a bit rubbery, as he removed the frazzled elastic band from one of the legs!
Good sport that he was the following year David invited me down to his new cottage in Hertfordshire to meet his fiancee, who just happened to be the lady he hadn't hit it off with on his tour of Liverpool salons! Apparently they had bumped into each other at a trade fair in Birmingham later that year. So much for love at first sight.
In the intervening year my love life had collapsed faster than a perm in a hailstorm and it showed in my less than ebullient demeanor. David and his bride to be both decided that I need to cut that gal right out of my life and so it happened that I found my hair being styled by a hairdressing legend. He asked me if he had carte blanche to do as he saw fit and I agreed.
I had no anxiety with regard to his skill as a stylist, and even less about his judgement because while he had been in Liverpool he had exhibited a side of him that only women would truly appreciate. I am referring of course to the psychologist in every great hairdresser.
Briefly, I had a girl friend, and she was, regrettably, only a friend, who happened to be one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen and was the nearest likeness to Ava Gardner I'd ever encountered. One summer's day I saw her from a distance and made my way toward her. When I got close to her I was staggered to see that her lovely features had been lacerated by a car crash. It was as if a vandal had attacked a priceless painting and I shared her undisguised sorrow.
On the night before the Easter turkey disaster she had come back with us for a drink, her scars obscured by her hair which she had taken to wearing long about her face. Without any preamble David promptly informed her that it was a sin to hide her beautiful bone structure and before she could shake her hair back into its role as protecting veil he had produced a pair of scissors from his top pocket and proceeded to remodel her hair.
The effect was stunning as he created something reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn in 'Breakfast at Tiffany's'; which gave my friend no curtain of hair to hide behind and although he couldn't mend the scars he did wonders for her self confidence and within a year had met her future husband.
His strategy with my hair was similar and before too long it was shorter than at any time since the mid sixties. I felt better for it somehow,
That, and the thrilling ride in David's Tomaso Pantera, was the best thing to come out of my voyage south, because truth to tell David revealed another side to his personality that left me nonplussed.
It transpired that he had purchased a pair of Turtle doves for his fiancee and had been forced to replace them several times over due to the depredations of his neighbour's cat.
David explained to me that wanted to have a pair of doves intact for the approaching wedding and asked me if I would have a word with his neighbour to see if the problem could be resolved. David it appeared had a touching faith in my ability as an 'educated' person to obtain a diplomatic coup.
So it was that I approached the rose laden front door of the cottage next door to David's and rang the bell. After what seemed an age the door opened a fraction to reveal a man, a woman and two terrifed looking children.
Assuming my charming best I suggested to the man that if he was amenable then perhaps he could bell the cat...an idea no doubt prompted by the old fashioned bell I had just employed. His poor anxiety creased face lightened and he agreed.
My first diplomatic mission completed I strode back to David's home, only slightly concerned that his neighbour had behaved as if I was Attila the Hun's personal envoy.
When I entered David's cottage I was surprised to find it empty, but then, on hearing voices from the upstairs rooms, I bounded up the stairs to tell him the good news. You can imagine my surprise when I beheld David and another of his friends taking pot shots at the cat with an air rifle! It appeared that in the time it had taken me to create an entente cordiale David's East End roots had re-asserted themselves and he had decided to take affirmative action regardless of my ambassadorial efforts.
I never applied to the the diplomatic corps after that. Nor did I ever let my hair grow long again.