Bad hair day? Blair’s barnet was a thing of glory

The former prime minister’s mullet-style haircut distracted viewers when he was discussing the prospect of Scottish independence, writes Will Gore

Blair’s new haircut caught attention after an appearance on ITV (ITV)

Tony Blair shocked the UK this week when he popped up on TV to showcase his flowing lockdown mane. Whatever it was he was supposed to be talking about has already been lost to the mists of time, so astounded was the nation by his snowy white locks.

Yet really should we have been so surprised? Blair, after all, frequently displayed a mullet back in the mid-1990s, sticking to his guns in a way only surpassed by arguably the king of this particular hair “style”, former footballer Barry Venison. Indeed, the Blair barnet back then might (at least by his critics) have been taken to be a symbol of his politics – an attempt at style hiding laissez-faire tendencies.

Two and half decades on, Blair has merely reverted to his natural state, albeit with a little less volume and colour than was once the case. True, he couldn’t have visited a barber even had he wanted to, but it’s amazing what you can do yourself with a couple of mirrors and some nail scissors, if you really want to.

Social media was, as social media generally is, utterly merciless about Tony’s tresses. There were gags about white walkers, guffaws at his retired rock star chic, and unflattering comparisons to a range of well-known wizards – and, indeed, Wizzard.

It’s fair to say that Blair has not quite pulled off the old-man/long-hair look with the success that someone like Jimmy Page seems to manage – but perhaps that’s the difference between Cool Britannia and actual cool. Nevertheless, interspersed among the jibes, if you looked hard enough, was the occasional glimpse of admiration. There was respect for the ex-PM’s confidence; and envy over the extensiveness of his thatch.

I came to my senses and reverted to a short back and sides. But every now and again, I have felt the pull of the mullet

I cannot deny that I was among those who felt a quiet pang of approval. It might be a result of the enduring appeal that the Blair era holds (in spite of everything) for me. But it is more probable that it was simply a consequence of the anxiety that almost all men in their forties feel about their own hair.

As a child of the 1980s, I spent a significant amount of time gazing in awe at permed footballers. When I was seven, I wanted the haircut sported by Manchester United’s Mark Hughes. Never mind that he had the same coiffure as a 43-year-old woman – specifically my mother. If tight curls to the shoulders were good enough for a footballing god, they were good enough for me.

But I never had the confidence of a Hughes or a Blair. In my early to mid-twenties, I became a little braver (or more foolhardy, some might say), and grew my hair long enough for a very, very modest ponytail. On one particular night out, I agreed to let some friends attack me with their hair straighteners. The results were hideous, and regrettably caught on camera.

I came to my senses and reverted to a short back and sides. But every now and again, I have felt the pull of the mullet. In the first lockdown, I didn’t have a haircut for five months and convinced myself it looked decent, in a Tony Blair circa 1995 kind of way. I was wrong, though not necessarily about the Blair comparison.

Increasingly though, I know I should not ignore the evidence of my ever more exposed temples. Next time I’m tempted to let it flow at the back, I might be in danger of unbalancing myself. And yet, the prospect of baldness can be grist to the mill: surely better to have a final mullety fling while I still can?

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Last weekend, as we ate lunch in our sun-drenched garden, my wife asked whether I ought to put a hat on. “You know, now that you’re getting thinner on top,” she added, before passing me a magical mirror so that I might see my haggard features withering before my eyes.

I bet Tony doesn’t get that kind of thing from Cherie. If he did, though, you can be sure he’d have the perfect comeback, a pithy remark that definitely isn’t a soundbite. “Listen Cherie,” he might say, with a twinkle in his eye, “I feel today the hair of history on my shoulders...”