Pruning
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When I was growing up in Aston, my idea of a personal grooming was a hot bath every other year. It’s not like there was a lot of pressure to be smooth-skinned and beautiful in those days. As a bloke, you were hairy and smelly, full stop, end of story. And as a bloke who was also a rock ’n’ roll singer, you were basically a one-man walking fucking sewer. I went on tour in Scandinavia once—in the depths of winter—with only one change of underpants. And no toothpaste. By the time I got back on the ferry to Harwich, Essex, my breath was so bad, every time I opened my mouth to say something, flowers wilted and birds fell out of the sky.
I’m a new man now.
The first time I really experienced modern beauty treatments was when I met Sharon. I woke up one day and she had me in a headlock with a pair of tweezers in her hand. I remember screaming,
That’s what Sharon calls it: “pruning.” And she does it to me at every available opportunity. If she sees so much as a single nose hair—she calls ’em “Hitlers” ’cos they look like the Fuhrer’s moustache—she’ll go after it like a lioness going after her prey. After a while I gave up trying to escape, ’cos putting up a fight wasn’t worth the pain. By holding out, I was making only one person miserable:
It’s reached the point these days where I actually enjoy a pruning—especially if it involves a long massage before a gig. I might be the Prince of Darkness, but I’ve had more pedicures now than I’ve had hot dinners. I don’t take it too far, though. I’ve never had my balls waxed. My anus has never been bleached. And I ain’t into all that “caviar facial” bollocks.
To me, looking good is about working with what you’ve got, and taking care of the simple things. Then again, if something really,
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
How long can your armpit hair possibly be, man? I mean, I could understand if you were worried about the hair on your head, or the smell of your cologne, or what kind of clothes you’re gonna wear—but unless you’re planning to get this poor woman in a nude headlock over dinner, how the fuck do your armpits come into the equation? Since you asked, though, let me give you some man-to-man advice: I shaved my armpits once for a joke, and it hurt like you wouldn’t believe for a whole month. Worse than that, they broke out in an ’orrible pimply rash. So if I were you, I’d leave your armpits well alone and concentrate on something else, like your conversation skills.
Dear Dr. Ozzy,
None of my spots ever go unsqueezed because of Sharon: if she sees one, she’ll be at it with a hammer and chisel in a heartbeat. You’re right, though: you’re not supposed to start hacking away at your forehead, or you’ll leave behind a scar, give yourself an infection, or force that white gunky stuff in the wrong direction, making you look like Elephant Man. If you’ve got a bit of dough in the bank, go and see a good facialist and they’ll do the squeezing for you. Pressing a hot towel to your face and then massaging the pores can also help. Whatever you do, make sure you wash your hands thoroughly first.
Dear Dr. Ozzy,
No-one wants to walk around the place looking like the Ryder Cup. But I think you’re being a bit hard on your poor old lugs—the job of hearing is pretty important (take it from someone who’s half-deaf). And Prince Charles does alright with his ears, which he could rent out at the weekend as parasails. But my advice is always the same with these things: if it bothers you,
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
I’ve always been blessed with good hair. I don’t wear a rug. I don’t wear extensions. And I don’t use spray paint to touch-up bald spots. The only thing I do to my hair is dye it. In fact, I’ve always promised myself that if I ever start getting threadbare on top, I’ll shave it all off rather than getting an Irish (Irish jig = wig) or spending half the day trying to arrange my last three strands into a greasy comb-over. I mean, whenever I see these guys with crazy rugs, or the ones who wear cowboy hats all the time, I just wanna say to them, “Fuck off, we all know you ain’t got any hair.” And while it’s possible to buy some very good wigs these days if you’ve got the time, the dough, and the patience, most of ’em are ludicrous. I remember one time, I sat down at a bar in New York next to a bloke with the worst wig I’d seen in my life. It was ginger, and made him look like a cat had died on his head… I mean, buying a wig is one thing. But a
¦ If you’ve got bad skin, try using a three-inch-deep layer of white powder foundation to cover it. Then add some smudged eye-liner and fake blood. It won’t get you laid, but it’ll get you out of babysitting duties for the rest of your life.
¦ They say that putting a cold tea bag on a bruise will make it go away faster. If a doctor ever asks if you’re
