Fashion, as I think we have all agreed, basically exists to make overweight 15 year old look shit and spend money.
For example, walking in to Topshop is like discovering the lost level of Super Mario – to get to the counter you have to bounce from hair mushroom to hair mushroom, scoring points, lost coins and the occasional lethal wound along the way.
What is the cause of this fungal infection I hear you ask? Headbands.
Natasha “sings like a fox, dresses like an eagle” Khan, Mischa “meth-face” Barton, Nicole “adopted by a singing walrus” Richie and Peaches “words will not weaken her” Geldof have all managed to convince Britain’s pocket-money-powered fashion children that the only thing standing between them and cool is a strip of forehead flattening elastic.
Which is obviously a load of shit.
Talking of a load of shit, every summer festival this year has been awash with headbands. Flowered ones, braided ones, gold ones, leather ones, even the odd feathery one. Each and every one with the power to inch up your skull until your hair has arranged itself into a mushroom cloud.
Children of Britain, you have been mercilessly tricked – you look like idiots. You may think you’re channelling the LSD rebellion of say, Jefferson Airplane:
or the decorous bohemia of Clara Bow:
but what you actually look like is the fungal-headed member of a late 80s leather metal band.
For those of you too blinded by psuedo-psychaedelia to wake up and smell the mushroom then let me give you a quick examples of why headbands are not cool.
Orange County’s very own double fail of hair metal and Christian rock. That’s right, your gold ribbon+back combing combination makes you look like a one way ticket to Salvation Through Redemption, Yielding Peace, Encouragement, and Righteousness. When headbands become the temple accessory of bible bashing, masturbatory-guitar no-marks, it’s time to stop witnessing, and turn to the dark side.
Rambo: First Blood
Actually, Rambo: First Blood is fucking cool. But probably not in the way you were hoping, unless you were planning to launch an attack on the rest of Glastonbury using nothing but a knife, a sheet of tarpaulin and one helicopter-defeating rock.
Although, personally, I would love a hair accessory that made people whisper: “You don’t seem to want to accept the fact you’re dealing with an expert in guerrilla warfare, with a (wo)man who’s the best, with guns, with knives, with [her] bare hands. A (wo)man who’s been trained to ignore pain, ignore weather, to live off the land, to eat things that would make a billy goat puke. In Vietnam [her] job was to dispose of enemy personnel. To kill! Period!”
Mmmmmm, a balding ginger-haired corn row devotee with more fake teeth than a joke shop and a penchant for ill-fitting leather. Just the look to seduce sexy video directors and tender-hearted poets.
That’s right. Your oh-so-alternative bohemian headwear actually makes you look like a blood-splattered, crazy-eyed England captain, heading your way into a 1989 anti-Sweden cranial injury.