Jane Asher and Paul McCartney (English Version)

LINDA

Shortly after his meeting with Jane, Leslie Cavendish met Paul.

Leslie Cavendish: I felt I needed to control myself and act "normal" before this superstar, otherwise I knew I might make Paul feel uncomfortable and ruin my chances of coming back to cut his hair again. Such was the challenge that was faced by anyone who came into contact with one of the Beatles around that tíme- and it was a barrier as solid and intimidating as the wall that enclosed the McCartney residence. I did pass my particular test, of course, and was called back for several new styling sessions during the following weeks, Over the course of that autumn, in 1966, I slowly began to relax in Paul's presence. I won't say that my visits to 7 Cavendish Avenue became anything like mere routine, but after a month or so I was able to work on that legendary head of hair and chat with its owner as if he were any other of my important male clients.

At the end of October, Leslie returned to Cavendish. Paul underwent a drastic makeover.

Leslie Cavendish: It happened on a windy afternoon in late October, as the leaves rustled by the vinyl go-go boots of the Apple Scruffs on Cavendish Avenue. John and George hadn't yet returned from their travels in Spain and India. Jane Asher and Paul were still at the peak of the romance that inspired such songs as 'All My Loving' or 'We Can Work It Out'. "I haven't seen Jane for a while," I remarked casually, as we climbed the steps towards Paul's bedroom. "Me neither, actually" he sighed. "She's been really busy with rehearsals and performances, and now she's going to be acting in a movie version of A Winter's Tale." "Can't you visit her on set?" "I suppose, but it wouldn't be a very good idea," he said, wistfully. "If I did, the press would be all over me, as usual, instead of talking about her movie. It's time she took the limelight for a while."

I was impressed: I couldn't imagine many celebrities being so considerate. As we lifted his big chair into the bathroom, a routine chore by now, he told me of his plans. "I'm thinking of taking a few days off in France or Spain. Mal Evans is down there, you know, our road manager. And we could even meet up with John on his ilm set in Almeria." "Sounds like fun." "Yeah," he said, sitting down in front of the mirror. As he saw himself, he pressed down on his new moustache, as you tend to do when you're not yet used to it. The only trouble is, these days I can't go anywhere without being mobbed. Being famous and instantly recognizable can be a pain, you know." He pointed at his own reflection in the mirror, pulled a face of cartoonish excitement and jumped up and down on the chair, as if he was one of his own fans and had just recognized the one and only Paul McCartney. We both laughed, and then a silly idea popped into my head. "Why don't you go in disguise?" I said, jokingly. "How?" he asked, looking at me in the mirror. "What do you suggest?" As I'd just pulled out my scissors from my portable hairdressing kit, I held them up, raised one of my eyebrows meaningfully and sliced the air: snip, snip. "What... cut all my hair off?" He tittered, looking up at himself in the mirror with an expression that was half concern, half excitement. "Well, not all of it. But I could cut it very short," I said, still in the spirit of fun. As I spoke, I played around with his shaggy hair, which was medium-length by now. "No one would recognize you as a Beatle, would they? I mean, how could you be a Beatle without this hair? And with that new moustache you're growing.." He then swung round, a gleam in his eye, and said: "Go on then, do it!" [...] So I crushed the hair in the scissors' maw and the blades did their work. It was done. There was no turning back. I looked at Paul. His face was that of a naughty schoolchild skiving from his grammar-school classes as he used to do with John Lennon to make up songs all afternoon. He loved it. I dropped the chunk of hair on the floor and got to work. I wanted to make Paul unrecognizable, but still give him a proper haircut. [...] A few minutes later, I surveyed my work. From a technical perspective, it was impeccable. Here was a young man with his smart new haircut. Like Magritte's shiny green apple, there was no denying its perfection. But I couldn't help feeling a strange sense of guilt. What had I done to Paul's famous barnet? Au revoir. It was gone. And nothing could be more surreal than that.