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Paula, who is this Paula, and why do I obsess over her with a white hot heat equal to that of Andre Breton’s obsession for Nadja, Salvador Dali’s for Gala, and Joey Ramone’s for the sublime Sheena? Is it the Mona Lisa smile? The barely restrained suggestion of sexual longing in her eyes? Is it the intoxicating opium scent of mascara and lipstick? Or is it the hair?

Yes! Yes, it’s the hair, the glorious hair. The beehive of absolute reality, divine in its defiance of the laws of gravity, blossoming as a follicle wonderland where Antonio Gaudi and The Ronnettes sniff hairspray and dream of Mayan pyramids. Paula: woman in all her archetypal majesty – Shakti with a serious wighat. My greaser goddess from the planet Maybelline.