BulldogBelle
02-04-2009, 12:23 AM
Murph's article this week....
The beauty, the splendour of hair. (http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/rfnews/the-splendour-of-hair/2009/04/01/1238261649005.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1)
The Age
Robert Murphy | April 2, 2009
'WHO are you? Ooh ooh, ooh ooh." Ah yes, one of the classics from one of the all-time great acts, The Who, who blasted into town last week to delight the petrolheads. Mind you, it would take The Beatles to get me along to the grand prix.
The Who's anthem poses an interesting question, that of our identity. Who are we to others? And who are we to ourselves?
Last week I had a brief dalliance with an alias, Bob Quigley. While it was fun to shed the old skin for a few days, it's back to who I really am this week. Plain old Bob Murphy might sometimes struggle to get a kick, but poor old Bob Quigley can't even get on the park.
My weekend again raised the question of identity: am I a footballer, or am I a spectator?
It's always a strange feeling to be part of the team when you're not actually playing, a bit like a woodchopper who's lost his axe.
Seeing your boys disappear up the race towards the lush Subiaco turf is, I imagine, a bit like watching your wife (if she was an actress) on the big screen in the clutches of another man. You're happy for them, but you can't help but feel a little jealousy, too.
From the unique viewpoint of the coach's box, I was able to enjoy a team I'm usually part of do what they do best, and I was immensely proud. Finals aside, interstate wins are what it's all about, and I could sit back on the midnight horror content that the excitement on a young player like Cal Ward's face at game's end showed what good hands our game and our club are in.
Football and life, life and football. When did the two become so complicated? For a player in the modern game it's impossible for a line to be drawn between the two — they are one and the same. Like it or loath it, football defines us. Michelangelo is remembered for his work, not by what he did in his spare time.
The game is all about trends, and the one I'd like to dig away at this week is hair — or a lack of. I've been keeping a close eye on scalps for a few years now, quietly stockpiling data to pose the big question: are AFL footballers' hairstyles a reflection of society's youth?
I'm sure most of you noticed the number of players who turned out last week with shaved heads, and surely we can't attribute them all to the No. 32 at Tigerland. (Round one's hairy exception was the beard on my big mate Ben Hudson, a modern-day rebel if ever there was. That it was deemed "not hot" by the little paper is reason enough to keep dodging the razor.)
This trend goes right to the heart of what aches in the youth of today, a youth I can still hold claim to (just). I'm 26, soon 27 — with a wobbly knee! In a football sense that's middle-age, and even a crafty deflection to music won't help me this time; in rock 'n' roll, 27 often spells death.
This hair theory first occurred to me a few years ago when the amount of wacky hairdos seemed to triple almost overnight, and I wondered if it was a subconscious reaction to players finding their own individuality. What is there to rebel against these days? For the most part we live in a free-thinking environment where creativity and ambition are rightly encouraged. The shackles are off, basically, but maybe this has left us feeling no pressure to follow "the norm".
Kids are asking themselves the Hoodoo Gurus' eternal question, "What's my scene?" Or rather, "What's my hair?"
The latest head-shaving epidemic says to me that we've now put our hands up and said, "We actually don't know what we're doing. Life is too complicated, too fast, so I'm going to take control of my hair because I've lost control of everything else."
Wrestling with my own identity, I took myself off to a proper, old-fashioned barber shop. Walking in, I was struck by the pictures of Elvis that lined the walls. "This is my barber," I thought. "Actually, this could be my church!"
I sat up in the glorious old barber's chair, wondering how many million hairs had fallen over this very seat. I asked about the pictures, readying myself to talk about all the classics — Kentucky Rain, Suspicious Minds, In the Ghetto. I was salivating.
Then my barber revealed that he was more of a karate lover than a music lover, and his affection for The King lay more in the exposure Elvis gave the karate community than his music. Thirty minutes of talking about karate was a lot (I was done after two, to be honest).
My barber's rant threw me, and the next thing I knew I was ignoring the voice of Jarvis' mum ringing in my ears ("your head is too skinny to shave, you'll look stupid"), and I emerged into the autumn glow not only $15 lighter and with a better knowledge of karate, but with a flat-top to boot.
Fair trade, I thought. At least I can find comfort that, despite my ageing body, I'm still part of a youthful generation — confused and taking it out on our hair.
The beauty, the splendour of hair. (http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/rfnews/the-splendour-of-hair/2009/04/01/1238261649005.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1)
The Age
Robert Murphy | April 2, 2009
'WHO are you? Ooh ooh, ooh ooh." Ah yes, one of the classics from one of the all-time great acts, The Who, who blasted into town last week to delight the petrolheads. Mind you, it would take The Beatles to get me along to the grand prix.
The Who's anthem poses an interesting question, that of our identity. Who are we to others? And who are we to ourselves?
Last week I had a brief dalliance with an alias, Bob Quigley. While it was fun to shed the old skin for a few days, it's back to who I really am this week. Plain old Bob Murphy might sometimes struggle to get a kick, but poor old Bob Quigley can't even get on the park.
My weekend again raised the question of identity: am I a footballer, or am I a spectator?
It's always a strange feeling to be part of the team when you're not actually playing, a bit like a woodchopper who's lost his axe.
Seeing your boys disappear up the race towards the lush Subiaco turf is, I imagine, a bit like watching your wife (if she was an actress) on the big screen in the clutches of another man. You're happy for them, but you can't help but feel a little jealousy, too.
From the unique viewpoint of the coach's box, I was able to enjoy a team I'm usually part of do what they do best, and I was immensely proud. Finals aside, interstate wins are what it's all about, and I could sit back on the midnight horror content that the excitement on a young player like Cal Ward's face at game's end showed what good hands our game and our club are in.
Football and life, life and football. When did the two become so complicated? For a player in the modern game it's impossible for a line to be drawn between the two — they are one and the same. Like it or loath it, football defines us. Michelangelo is remembered for his work, not by what he did in his spare time.
The game is all about trends, and the one I'd like to dig away at this week is hair — or a lack of. I've been keeping a close eye on scalps for a few years now, quietly stockpiling data to pose the big question: are AFL footballers' hairstyles a reflection of society's youth?
I'm sure most of you noticed the number of players who turned out last week with shaved heads, and surely we can't attribute them all to the No. 32 at Tigerland. (Round one's hairy exception was the beard on my big mate Ben Hudson, a modern-day rebel if ever there was. That it was deemed "not hot" by the little paper is reason enough to keep dodging the razor.)
This trend goes right to the heart of what aches in the youth of today, a youth I can still hold claim to (just). I'm 26, soon 27 — with a wobbly knee! In a football sense that's middle-age, and even a crafty deflection to music won't help me this time; in rock 'n' roll, 27 often spells death.
This hair theory first occurred to me a few years ago when the amount of wacky hairdos seemed to triple almost overnight, and I wondered if it was a subconscious reaction to players finding their own individuality. What is there to rebel against these days? For the most part we live in a free-thinking environment where creativity and ambition are rightly encouraged. The shackles are off, basically, but maybe this has left us feeling no pressure to follow "the norm".
Kids are asking themselves the Hoodoo Gurus' eternal question, "What's my scene?" Or rather, "What's my hair?"
The latest head-shaving epidemic says to me that we've now put our hands up and said, "We actually don't know what we're doing. Life is too complicated, too fast, so I'm going to take control of my hair because I've lost control of everything else."
Wrestling with my own identity, I took myself off to a proper, old-fashioned barber shop. Walking in, I was struck by the pictures of Elvis that lined the walls. "This is my barber," I thought. "Actually, this could be my church!"
I sat up in the glorious old barber's chair, wondering how many million hairs had fallen over this very seat. I asked about the pictures, readying myself to talk about all the classics — Kentucky Rain, Suspicious Minds, In the Ghetto. I was salivating.
Then my barber revealed that he was more of a karate lover than a music lover, and his affection for The King lay more in the exposure Elvis gave the karate community than his music. Thirty minutes of talking about karate was a lot (I was done after two, to be honest).
My barber's rant threw me, and the next thing I knew I was ignoring the voice of Jarvis' mum ringing in my ears ("your head is too skinny to shave, you'll look stupid"), and I emerged into the autumn glow not only $15 lighter and with a better knowledge of karate, but with a flat-top to boot.
Fair trade, I thought. At least I can find comfort that, despite my ageing body, I'm still part of a youthful generation — confused and taking it out on our hair.