Every time I’ve wandered into a hairdresser on my day off, hoping to fit in a haircut, I’ve been asked if I’ve made an appointment, by one of the three stylists sitting around having a chat and a hot drink. Because if I haven’t, they can probably fit me in three weeks Thursday at 11h01.
At first subtly, then elaborately, I peer around the salon looking for the crowds of customers that require me to have made an appointment three weeks back, but I fail to detect them; in fact there’s an echo in here. Concluding that this salon doesn’t need the business, I gradually work my way through all the local hairdressers, then give up and buy a big scrunchy clip to hold the mess back.
Of course, this state of affairs can’t last forever, and so, finally driven mad by hours under the hairdryer each morning, only to be followed by having the stuff lashed against my face by the wind and plastered flat by the rain, I give in and make an appointment and move heaven and earth to be there on the dot of 11h01 Thursday. After a lonely wait of no more than ten minutes, I am required to make a choice of tea or coffee, which is gravely noted before finally a ridiculously young woman emerges, views my hair, adopts her serious expression and starts poking and pulling at wisps while emitting small hushed mews and widening her eyes to the point where I fear her heavily caked eyelashes will surely Velcro themselves to her fringe and cause her eyes to dehydrate.
“You’re so dry!” (why thank you, I pride myself on my sense of humour) “I don’t know how we’re going to do this. Marcia! MARCIA!”
An identical ridiculously young woman emerges from the mysterious rear of the salon, looking worried. Velcro beckons her over as if afraid of invoking a demon should she have the temerity to say its name, and together they examine my scalp minutely, making small moaning noises and occasionally whispering something incomprehensible. On the only occasion that I inadvertently exposed a hairdresser to a nit she executed a leap of such gymnastic excellence that my daughter was too fascinated to burst into tears when said hairdresser, sheltering behind the furthest possible chair, pointed a trembling, ghostly pale finger at her and whispered,
“Nits!”.
Since neither Velcro or Marcia is showing signs of flight, I assume there is no wildlife, although of course this could be because they are both terminally entangled in my hair.
Finally they straighten, draw back, and exchange grim looks. Velcro draws a deep breath and emits the sort of sigh the mechanic favours you with just before he tells you that the gidget under the dooberry has eroded and needs replacing, but they don’t make them like that any more and you’re going to need a dilithium crystal and godonlyknows where he’s going to find one this time of the day.
“I’m afraid, “ she finally murmers, “that we’re going to have to cut that.”
Reflecting that this is a particularly unfortunate phobia for a hairdresser, I almost miss Marcia’s lecture on the consequences of exposing one’s hair to the sun, the wind, the rain, chlorine….I wonder whether dirty looks and insults from other drivers count, but since Velcro and Marcia are both nodding emphatically at this point I take the opportunity to hastily point out that a haircut is indeed what I am here for, and….
“Not that you can’t get a good quality protective product to cover your hair before you go into the water, and cover it with your swimming cap. “ Marcia points out.
“Oh.” I murmur weakly, feeling rather better. Although I still find myself concerned about the need to do commando-style dashes from one patch of shade to another in order to get from the carpark to the office, not to mention the reaction of my manager when I explain that I can’t expose my hair to the danger of wind, and have to stay home today.
“Okay, “ says Velcro briskly, clearly relieved to have the bad news off her chest; “let’s get you to the basin.”
I am no sooner prone on the leather chair with my neck on the rim of the basin than the apprentice arrives with my coffee, which I balance precariously, blindly, and by feel on my lap while Velcro lists the products that the apprentice needs to slosh through my hair (why, when half of it will be off soon?). The apprentice turns on the water spray, which is so hard I can feel the splashes soaking my collar, asks me something incomprehensible, then goes ahead and rubs, combs, rinses and repeats several lotions and potions through my thoroughly soggy hair. By the time she hauls me upright and wraps a towel the size of a small country around my head the fumes have made me so dizzy I spill my coffee; but luckily it is ice-cold anyway.
My robe duly replaced, I make my careful way to the chair the helpful apprentice pulls back, balancing the fluffy white mountain on my head rather precariously. Annoyingly she takes it off almost immediately to comb my hair. Velcro appears from the back, this time armed with a determined grin. The apprentice pulls up a trolley piled with Instruments, Velcro positions herself on the stool behind me and I wait for the Catechism.
She doesn’t disappoint me.
“Have you had your holidays, then?”
I mutely shake my head and adopt the vacuous expression that will indicate I am ready for the Sermon – this consists of a monologue regarding her holidays, requiring only the occasional Yes, No or Cool from the captive audience. We have reached Corfu before she interrupts herself to tilt my head back, examine my hair critically and ask, “There, how’s that, then?”
How’s what, I wonder? I realise she is starting to stack Instruments back into the trolley, and stare hard at my reflection, trying to see something to hinge a compliment on. Getting rather panicky, I examine the floor, to find a number of tiny piles of hair arranged in a neat circle.
At this point, I rather feel the need to explain the CUT bit of HAIR CUT, and she stares at me in shock.
“You mean you want it….SHORTER!!!?”
I nod meekly, not meeting her eyes.
Her eyelashes venture dangerously close to her fringe again, and I panic. It is clearly time for the Blessing and the Departure. Pulling out an industrial-sized hairdryer with one hand while expertly piling more Product in my largely unchanged hair, she sets to work with gusto.
“You won’t recognise yourself,” she promises me, and I groan. Recognising myself is not the problem, seeing myself is. I get ready to leap out of the chair and shriek, “No hairspray, please!” but as always, I am too late.
Considerably lighter in pocket, I slink back to my car, hoping I don’t bump into anyone I know. Not that they’ll recognise me; and not that I’ll be able to see them; I’m just a bit worried about the permanent effect I might have on their health, given the way that small dogs are cowering away from the smell of my hair.
So, I went to the barber. She doesn’t Do Appointments, you just pitch and she deals with you when you reach the front of the queue.
She wraps a robe around me, sprays my hair and gets snipping, and when she’s finished, she brushes the hair briskly off the robe, takes a sensible sum of cash off me and gets the next punter onto the chair.
It’s that simple. No washes. No Product. No Blow-Wave, no Hairspray, no Holiday Chat. And it took less than fifteen minutes, notwithstanding no Appointments.
It occurs to me I must have spent about three weeks of my life at the mercy of hairdressers, having things that I do not either want or understand done to my hair. Maybe this is why men stare at women in bewilderment when they complain about not having enough hours in the day.
NB – there are not enough hours in the day.
And I conclude that I am a grumpy old woman. But I am a grumpy old woman with $70 more in my pocket than I would otherwise have had, and enough time for a walk on the beach AND the ability to see where I am going!
