Thea Scott-Turner

RUNNER UP

(He Seems To Have An) Invisible Touch- An ode to Phil Collins, and other similarly bald men.

This is a love letter. And, like all good love letters, this one starts with my dad. 

The foundations of my childhood were built on two main pillars; the soundtrack to Disney’s 1999 animated classic, ‘Tarzan’ composed and performed by Phil Collins (among others), and the love of a balding, 40-something year old man (namely my father- in case you were worried.) Both these things, to me, personify the truest feelings of comfort and nostalgia, and may have culminated into a bit of an intense appreciation for the more follicularly challenged among us. Who is to say which of these was the true genesis (hehe) of my enduring infatuation with the bald/ing community, or if I can continue to deny any and all oedipal connotations (redact first line). The one thing I, most humbly, can vouch for, is that bald men create beautiful things. 

I prepare for the death of Phil Collins in the way that people from Utah prepare for doomsday, with an (un)healthy mixture of both certainty and denial. Amongst my family and friends there is a collective awareness that, most likely, some poor nominated soul will have to break the news of his passing. There is also a collective awareness that this will undoubtedly be poorly received. For about a week out of each month (you can probably guess which), I am put on a mandatory Phil Media Strike -the real PMS; his soft voice and disconcertingly beautiful lyricism striking something in me akin to those videos of soldiers coming home to their families, and without the underlying feeling that he may have committed war crimes in the Middle East. Whether a result of his dulcet tones, or his gentle demeanour (my assumption of which being heavily informed by his baldness, à la my dad), Phil makes me weep. He must be entirely avoided pre-menstrually. 

The musical works of Phil Collins, from percussion to front-man performance, have all carried something so deeply moving and joyful, something simultaneously crushing and uplifting, and something that I would be remiss not to attribute to Phil’s undeniable mastery of The Key Change (or modulation, if you’re that way inclined- which I’m not.) The predictability with which he has utilised this across his biggest hits (in which I am obviously including every song from ‘Tarzan’ (1999), but with particular reference to his track ‘Strangers Like Me’, with the punchiest key change of all), has only served to cement him as the stoic yet emotionally intuitive presence he has been throughout my life. You know where you stand with Phil; you’ve been on the journey with him time after time, and it’s a rollercoaster that just keeps going up! A punchy start, a bridge that soars, and key change in the second half that takes you round the loop-the-loop and all the way home to, if you’re lucky, a tasty little fade-out (divisive, but a personal favourite of both Phil and myself.) I take the musical genius that is Phil Collins very seriously (Sussuseriously, in fact…), but when all is said and done, I would also be remiss not to attribute the successes of Phil Collins, at least in my house, just a little bit, to his baldness. 

There is much to be said for a blading man; something so sincere and a little vulnerable; disarming in a way that, I believe, isn’t given enough credit. A bald man is the antithesis of that one ‘Mean Girls’ (2004) quote, something about big hair being full of secrets. They have nothing to hide behind, they are proverbially and literally laying themselves bare. It must be said, however, that my entire opinion of bald men has been shaped by my aforementioned father, the most gentle and selfless man you could ever hope to meet, which unfortunately may have set me up for a lifetime of disappointment. Whilst I am certain there are a whole host of terrible men with no hair (Dr Evil, et al. Also Duncan Goodhew, but that’s more of a personal vendetta and also a little circumstantially unfair), there will always be at least one good baldy to restore the balance. My dad counts for at least three of them, both in level of baldness, and in measure of heart. Phil Collins, in all his hairless glory, makes up for the rest. 

You Can’t Hurry Love- or male pattern baldness, it seems. The journey maketh the man, and what a man it has made-eth Phil, receding back as he stepped forward into the spotlight, just in time for it to reflect off of

his splendid crown as he took to centre stage. Not long ago I saw a clip of him performing live, pre 1985, stage lighting bouncing off his head in an array of colours, wearing a headset with attached microphone that someone had commented made him look like a used car salesman. This moved me to tears (see PMS arrangement). The complete visual ensemble; this mic’ed up, shiny-headed man, plodding about with a joy that only comes from finding the most reliable second-hand Micra this side of Watford gap, only served to confirm my long-held beliefs: Phil Collins is an extraordinarily ordinary man, gifted with an unbelievable musical talent, and humanised by his hair. 

There’s a raw intimacy in seeing someone’s scalp. I believe this is why I have always had an affinity for bald people, a feeling as though they’ve inadvertently let me in on something, and I am duty bound to them in return. This has, historically, worked well for me, with the best people I know having lost their hair at one time or another (correlation, not causation… one would hope), though it begs the question, which came first?: The love of a bald man, or the love for the bald man- perhaps the best answer is Please Don’t Ask.