Woke up in a right bad mood this morning. My hairnet had slipped overnight meaning that strands of hair had escaped and bent at right angles. Took me two hours to tease it back into shape and a further hour to compose a scathing letter to the manufacturer.
So, word of advice - don't buy hair products from Borneo. I've bought a job lot and will have to double up on my nightly nets. That's five quid down the swanny already!
In the end, the whole imbroglio bummed me out (and don't get funny, pervy, I don't mean Natalie), so I cancelled our studio time and leafed through hair magazines for ideas. The lads were annoyed, but they understand that my hair is central to Lostprophets' core vision. In the end, I learned a very handy technique involving a heated roll brush and some curling tongs. Tried to ring the lads to tell them of the new development, but they didn't pick up.
A lot of people say they're into hair, and they just mean head hair, but every bit of hair on my body is treated equally. Ian Watkins is not a man to be seduced by lacklustre hygenics! Each strand is shampooed, conditioned, straightened and volume boosted from root to tip. Yes, ladies, you read that right. Every single hair.
I've even developed a prototype aerated pant with protective pouch for er, well, y'know. If anyone's interested in my invention, contact me via the record company. It's patented so don't even think about stealing it.
I probably shouldn't tell you this, but I'm working on quite a few projects in my lab. In many ways, next to the studio, the lab is the hub of my genius. Sometimes I wonder that the strength of my enormous brain doesn't push my beautiful head-hairs out at the roots, I really do. I shouldn't joke. But, it goes to show that I can have a sense of humour about it.
At the moment I'm working on two hair formulas – one that will harness the power of good and one that is all of Beelzebub's malevolence in a textured hair clay. I plan to infiltrate the dressing rooms of my nemeses and replace their products with my own homemade concoctions.
The result, my friends, will be the musical equivalent of the apocalypse. Dry roots, split ends, a debilitating lack of volume and panic in the streets. Only Ian Watkins and compatriots shall remain come the last day. We will brush the competition away like the dandruff I don't have out of the hair that doesn't have dandruff. So there!
First on my hit list is that swine Davey Havok. Mark my words, AFI better watch themselves next time they book a date in Pontypridd. Oh yes, another Watkins victory sparkles on the horizon like so many tubes of wet look gel.
Anyway, I've said enough. 'Til next time, hair fans!
