Trust Me, I’m Dr. Ozzy

I’m in my mid-40s and stunned to find that my hair is turning white (not the hair on my head). I thought I could use dye, but some hairs are black and I don’t want to look like a tabby. It’s getting me down and is threatening to affect my love life, which I was hoping to ignite with the local plastic surgeon before it’s too late. Help!

Katy, Buckinghamshire

Personally, I’ve never had a bikini wax, and I don’t know why any bloke in his right mind would ever let another bloke anywhere near his nearest and dearest. For women, though, it’s a lot more common—and in your case, it sounds like the lawnmower treatment might not be a bad idea. Just don’t get carried away. Over in LA, some women get this thing done called “revirgination” (where they repair your hymen) while gay blokes are getting parts of their bodies bleached that should never even see the light of day. I wouldn’t recommend any of that. But a bit of hot wax might do the trick.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

I recently lost a lot of weight and now I have horrendous stretch marks. How can I get rid of them?

Michael, Kent

This is the problem with losing weight as you get older: all the elasticity in your skin disappears, so you end up with a big, floppy bag of skin hanging over your arse. Either that, or you get the dreaded stretch marks. I’ve got to ask you a question, though, Michael: where are these marks? If they’re under your clothes, why do anything? Who cares? Otherwise, have a look on the Internet for all the oils and potions you can put on your skin to help get rid of the redness, or ask your doc about laser treatment. Getting yourself zapped can be very pricey, but I’m told it can be very effective.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

I’m desperate to get some tattoos, but I’m broke, and my parents won’t help me out, because they don’t approve. Can I do them myself with a needle and some ink, like you did?

Jason, Cardiff

Yes, you can do it yourself, but I strongly advise you not to, ’cos all kinds of things can go wrong if you start stabbing yerself with a rusty fork. Either that, or you need to become a qualified tattoo artist. Personally, I learned while I was doing time for burglary in Winson Green prison, Birmingham: anything to make the day go by quicker. I remember one of the guys drawing a picture of The Saint on my arm with a ballpoint pen—I’d been a fan of the show since it started in 1962—then he used a sewing pin he’d nicked from the workroom and some melted grate polish (the stuff they used to clean fireplaces with) to poke in a tattoo over the top. After that, I was hooked. I once spent a whole afternoon in Sutton Park, a posh part of town, spelling out “O-Z-Z-Y” across my knuckles. Then I put a smiley face on each of my knees to cheer myself up when I was sitting on the bog in the morning. My old man wasn’t very fucking impressed, mind you. He took one look at me, shook his head, and went, “Son, you’re an idiot.”

Dr. Ozzy’s Trivia Quiz: Being Beautiful

Find the answers—and your score—here

1. What crazy beauty secret did Cleopatra use to always look good?

a) Smearing crocodile shit on her face

b) Putting ass’s milk up her ass

c) Banning mirrors in her house

2. Which of these unlikely ingredients have been found in baldness cures throughout history?

a) Burnt mice

b) Ground horse teeth

c) “Bear grease” (whatever the fuck that is)

3. If you sit for a long time behind a car window on a sunny day, what’s most likely to happen?

a) You’ll tan faster than The Situation

b) You won’t turn brown, but you’ll burn like Guy Fawkes on November 5

c) You won’t tan or burn—but people will start mistaking you for Yoda

4. Who spent $24,000 (more or less) on a single haircut in 2009?

a) Tony Blair

b) Michael Jackson

c) The Sultan of Brunei

5. What do the Czechs bathe in before and/or after drinking beer?

a) Beer

b) Horse sweat

c) Sausage fat

Family—The Other F-Word 4

You Love ’Em to Death, but They Drive You Fucking Mental

Last December, my wife had one of her brilliant ideas. “Ozzy,” she said to me one morning. “Let’s go to England, get all the kids together, and have a traditional family Christmas in our family home in the English Countryside. It’ll be lovely. What do you think?”

“Are you sure?” I said. “The kids are grown-up now. Maybe they want to do their own thing.”

“Oh, Ozzy,” she said. “Of course they’ll want to be with their mum and dad. Besides, it’s the house where they all grew up.”

I wasn’t very convinced. “Look, Sharon,” I said. “Are you absolutely sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Of course I do!” she replied.

Needless to say, it was a fucking disaster. Peace on earth? It would have been more peaceful if we’d gone to Tripoli. Could the kids get along with each other for more than five seconds? Not on your life. If it wasn’t one, it was the other. All I could hear were slammed doors, houseplants being thrown across the room, and people screaming at each other. It was so bad at one point, I almost fell off the wagon and had a beer. Finally, on Christmas day, I got up, went downstairs, and said to everyone, “Look: all I want for Christmas is for you to get on, even if you have to fake it—just for ONE fucking day!”

Everyone nodded, hung their heads, and agreed to calm down. It lasted three hours. Then they were back at