by Carol's Guy

About a year [before writing this] I wrote a piece called 'The Story of a Private Pleasure' and it's pleasing to see that it inspired one reader, 'Creemdreems', to write about his own experiences. He makes an interesting observation, and this is entirely in line with my own experience, about the way some kids at school in the 1960s used Brylcreem without the slightest hint of self-consciousness. To them it was a device for keeping their hair in place, that's all. Okay, sometimes they might make an exhibition of combing their hair in any available reflective surface, but I'm sure it was just bravado or a "hey, aren't I cool" gesture more than anything else. To these 'Brylcreem Boys' there seemed to be no element of secretiveness or private pleasure, or let's face it, no erotic aspect. And that, I suppose, is the way it's meant to be; the use of hair cream isn't intended to be any different from wearing a decent shirt or a clean pair of shoes. For me, though, quietly creating fantasies in my head, Brylcreem represented a giant step into a strange new land that was very attractive but somehow forbidden. Although I'm not a particularly religious person, the word 'sinful' sometimes came to mind when I thought about it. What does 'sinful' mean? My interpretation is that it implies violating or infringing some kind of moral code, but quite why the use of Brylcreem should be against a moral code I could never decide. When I was a bit older I came to equate 'sinful' with 'sexy' which I think brings us closer to the truth. But was it forbidden because it was desirable, or was it desirable because it was somehow forbidden? For me, that particular chicken-and-egg has never been resolved, but the fascination remained. Thinking about Brylcreem was like standing at the doorway of a strange and vaguely forbidden fantasy world, and it was a world which deserved to be explored, but not shared. Of that I was quite positive. And in this essay I would like to look a bit closer at this difference, the blase take-it-in-your-stride attitude of the ones I called Brylcreem Boys, and the shy private fantasy of the envious outsider like myself.

It's funny how some memories come to the surface quickly while others take longer to dig up. In my previous piece I described most of my better memories relating to Brylcreem, but after I had submitted that essay another amusing memory came back to me. This relates to a holiday we had in 1964, when I was twelve. That summer we (that is my mother, father and myself) spent a week in Edinburgh and stayed at a rather old-fashioned guest house on Leith Walk which was run by a charming and very efficient lady called Mrs. Baird. She was a widow and was helped in the running of the place by her son Andrew, who was about the same age as myself. On the first day Andrew helped to serve the evening meal and we found this was the usual routine. I will never forget the moment when we were introduced to Andrew, because the first thing I saw was that his brown hair was absolutely gleaming with Brylcreem. 'Plastered down' as my mother would have said. Possibly this was Mrs. Baird's idea of having her son look smart in front of the guests, I don't know, but it certainly impressed me. That boy's hair was beautiful and it was difficult to avoid staring at him.

Andrew's hair was very short and neat so I guessed that he had just had it cut, that would explain the Brylcreem. But no; the following morning when he helped to serve breakfast his hair was perfect again and gleaming with a lot of obviously fresh cream. So, I concluded, he kept his hair like that all the time. He had it parted on the left and combed straight across on top, the front was combed up and back and finished off with a long comb stroke over the right temple. I thought it looked fabulous, it was a perfect example of what I later came to think of as the "barbershop style." Now, although for me the main event was just the sheer beauty of a boy's hair so generously creamed, I quickly became aware of another intriguing aspect to the thing. This was Andrew's complete lack of self-conciousness. It astonished me then, and the memory of it continues to astonish me now. Here he was, his hair Brylcreemed in a way which to me seemed daring or even excessive, calmly going about his business. I would see him talking amiably to his mother or the guests without, apparently, the slightest idea that the style of his hair or the quantity of his Brylcreem might be cause for comment. I suppose he must have kept his hair that way all his life, and regarded it as perfectly normal. Which of course it is for most people who use it!

The cream Andrew used appeared to give a remarkably firm hold and a high gloss, so in view of my later experience with different creams it's possible that he was actually using Vaseline hair cream. Whatever the brand, he certainly used plenty of it, and I found myself longing to know what it felt like. It would be another two years before I experienced the pleasure of having my hair creamed that way, and for the present I just had to keep my envy to myself and weave my little fantasies. One day I happened to see Andrew combing his hair very carefully and meticulously in a mirror in the kitchen. There wasn't a hint of bravado or narcissism about him, he was simply putting his hair in order prior to helping his mother serve a meal, and for him the act was probably about as exciting or arousing as polishing his shoes.

Seeing Andrew's uncomplicated attitude to his hair stirred up a memory from about a year before, of a very different individual whose feelings were clearly at the opposite end of the scale. This was my brief sight of a boy who passed me in the street one day looking like a walking Brylcreem advertisement. I've described this before, but it's a precious memory and I feel it demonstrates a point, so I hope you'll forgive me for returning to it. This boy's brown hair had obviously just been cut and was Brylcreemed straight back from his forehead with no parting. This was unusual in itself, but what was most remarkable was the sheer quantity of cream. He had so much Brylcreem on his hair that it gleamed with a deep reflecting gloss, and even the comb marks appeared to have been smoothed out to give a sleek surface. Whether this had been done by the barber or by the boy's own hand I can't even guess. The combination of that strangely adult straight-back style with what I assume to have been a deliberate excess of cream looked absolutely stunning. It must have felt wonderful, and to this day I have never seen anyone with so much Brylcreem on his hair. The point I wish to make is that although this boy showed every sign of being highly pleased with his haircut, he also looked desperately self-conscious and uncomfortable walking along the street with his hair creamed and combed the way it was.

Looking back at this encounter, I think I know what might have happened. I wonder if this young man had summoned up the courage to say "put a lot on" when the barber asked that all-important question, and had then opted for the straight-back style as well. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall of the shop as it was done! I can just imagine the timid request, the barber complying with a generous squeeze of the dispenser, the unforgettable smack of a handful of Brylcreem, and the barber turning to work the dispenser a second or even a third time. Then the soft squelch as massively creamed hair was combed and shaped, the young customer's sense of anticipation, and finally his barely concealed delight at the magnificently Brylcreemed stranger looking back at him from the mirror. And now here he was, his hair solid with cream, walking home and revelling uneasily in the strange novelty of it. And what novelty; not only that big smacky mass of cream but an unfamiliar fore-and-aft shape as well. He kept hesitantly touching his shiny hair and carefully smoothing it, no doubt wary of spoiling such perfection but unable to resist the feel of that slippery surface. On his face was an intense look of shy, bashful delight that said "I've never had my hair Brylcreemed like this before," and I can remember catching the sweet scent of all that fresh cream as we passed in the street. That boy had taken the bold step into his own strange land, he knew it was too late to go back now, and it had brought him a very obvious clash of emotions. I can't help wondering what the reaction was when he got home.

I found it interesting to put myself into that boy's position, and I speculated whether I would have the nerve to walk along the street with my hair done that way. I have to say that this encounter put my sense of Brylcreem Envy well and truly into perspective, and envy it most certainly was. I longed to be that boy, and yet I doubted my ability to carry the act off even if the opportunity came my way. This encounter was also, I believe, what first suggested to me the appeal of Brylcreem in deliberate excess. My brief sight of this nervous haircut victim provided what was by far the most memorable example I ever saw of a boy with Brylcreemed hair, and one thing I was certain of; I identified absolutely with the self-consciousness he so clearly displayed. I felt quite sure that if at some future date I was able to explore the mysteries of Brylcreem for myself, it would bring me exactly the same mixture of pleasure and agitation. And I compared this with the calm detachment of Andrew. What was the difference? Was it possible that Andrew and those like him had experienced that strange timid delight the first time their hair was creamed, but long familiarity had removed the mystery and the pleasure from it? Somehow, I didn't think that was the case. I came to the conclusion, and this is still my belief, that some people are natural Brylcreem Boys and take it in their stride while others, like myself or the boy in the street, just can't help making a mystery out of it. For some, hair cream is an everyday toiletry about as erotic as a bar of soap, while for others it's the key to a strange world that's sexy and extremely personal. And that's just the way it is.

On about the fourth day of our stay at Mrs. Baird's something happened which could have turned out a lot more embarrassing than it did. That evening we were the only people having the evening meal. The meal was served as usual, and as soon as Andrew was out of the room my father leant across the table towards me, winked, and said in a conspiratorial tone of voice

"How do you fancy having your hair all creamed up like that?"

This took me completely by surprise, because I knew I had deliberately not looked at Andrew when he was in the room. I also shudder to think that I might have blushed. I didn't say anything but made a kind of "yeeugh" expression with my face that I hoped would convey dislike, or at least a lack of interest. I needn't have worried because at that moment my mother chimed in.

"He's not having his hair like that" she said, quite crossly. "That lad's got a ridiculous amount of grease on his hair, I think it looks awful, Brylcreem isn't for little boys."

Father winked at me again and changed the subject. I think what was happening here was that father, knowing mother's dislike of Brylcreem, was just making the remark to wind her up. The wink was his way of letting me in on the joke, and I don't believe he thought for one moment that I might either want or need to have my hair creamed like Andrew's. I actually felt very grateful to my mother for putting an end to the incident. It made me think, though. What if both my parents had found they approved of Andrew's neat and tidy hair, and had actually started encouraging me to use cream like him? It could very easily have happened, and I can imagine the scene... "you're a big boy now, time to have some grown-up greasy stuff on your hair, come on." So in a way, my mother's dislike of Brylcreem was what saved me from being pushed into the everyday use of it and having my secret, and my future private pleasure, dragged into the open.

At about this time my own interest in the female of the species was starting to come into play, and this didn't diminish my interest in Brylcreem but ran along parallel with it for a time. My real hands-on experience of Brylcreem began in 1966, as I have described, and I found the erotic aspect of it combined very well with my fantasies about girls. Like most other kids, a lot of my awareness and fantasy material came from the television. On the basis that the inevitable will happen anyway so set your wishes on the impossible, my own idea of perfection was probably the actress Diana Rigg. There was also a stunningly beautiful young model who appeared in a toothpaste advert but I never knew her name or anything about her. On a more realistic level, there was the girl called Carol who lived in the same street, and I was well aware of her (and she of me) long before we got together properly in 1969. She never saw me with Brylcreem on my hair but sometimes, during my hair sessions in 1966-67, I would say to the mirror "there you are Carol, how do you like that?" I was well aware that women and girls tended to dislike greasy hair, and I suspect that if Carol could have seen me she would have been appalled.

In 1966 we almost returned to Edinburgh, and father wrote to Mrs. Baird to see if she was still operating the guest house. She was, but then our plans changed and we didn't go. I would have been curious to see Andrew, but I wouldn't have been surprised to see him with a Beatle haircut.

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