Am I Right or Am I Right? (6 page)

Scene 37

Interior. Daytime. Vanessa’s front room. Tasteful art is on the walls, potted plants with gleaming leaves stand in corners, and there is no hint of dirt anywhere. It looks like a room fumigated regularly by people in white coats and breathing apparatus. You could perform open-heart surgery on the dining table with complete confidence
(
see next episode
).

Vanessa Aldrick, seventeen, is lying on the sofa. She is dressed in flowing robes of pure white that drape elegantly over slender limbs. Her hair, a pale waterfall, catches the light.

Enter Calma Harrison. She radiates good health. Her long, muscular, tanned legs are perfectly complemented by an immaculately tailored designer dress. Her bust heaves dramatically, threatening to explode out of the confining material and concuss a cameraman. When she smiles, impossibly white teeth flash like a solar flare.

She stands in front of Vanessa, one beautifully manicured hand on hip, the other running through the silk of her hair.

Calma: Nessa. You were right about Jason all along. He has been two-timing me with Charlene.

Nessa: That girl who is so attractive she makes us seem like the rear end of a constipated Rottweiler?

Calma: The very same. I found out tonight when he crashed his sports car
(
with her in it
)
into the coffee shop, killing four extras, ruining the special of the day and turning Tammy into a paraplegic.

Nessa: Tammy? The champion surfer with the honed body of an Olympic athlete and flawless makeup?

Calma: The very same.

Vanessa and I talked. I apologized for swearing at her. She apologized for what she had said about Kiffo.

On the surface, we were okay again. But I wasn’t satisfied. Vanessa was hiding something. I mean, it was fine that she recognized her overreaction, but she didn’t offer any explanation for it. And there had to be something more. The difficulty would be getting it out of her—as you must have gleaned by now, Vanessa isn’t the best communicator in the world. It was a problem.

I didn’t have time that afternoon, so I filed the dilemma away for future reference. You see, I’d made an appointment at the hairdresser’s for five o’clock and I didn’t want to be late. I was overdue for a trim. My hair had been bothering me for some time. It had nothing to do with my date on Friday, you understand.

As it turned out, I wish I’d stayed with Vanessa and watched the rest of the soap opera.

Chapter 10

Just your average hairdo

I don’t know how you are positioned on the feminist spectrum, but let me present you with a scenario. You are thinking of going to the hairdresser’s to prepare for a date. Part of you is disturbed by this. You examine your motives and see if they stand up to rational scrutiny. Which of the following do you most identify with?

a) Going on a date should not compromise your standards. Trying to impress a guy with good grooming is a sad indictment of your insecurity. It is better to turn up exactly as you are, warts and all, and if he is not impressed, then he is a shallow individual not worthy of your attention in the first place.

b) It is entirely understandable to want to make an impression. If a trip to the local dump is normally preceded by ensuring you are clean and tidy, then a social engagement would obviously justify greater effort. This would include paying attention to hair, makeup, and outfit. Not to do so would be artificial. What’s the alternative? Not showering, and dressing in soiled shorts and ripped T-shirt with bird’s-nest hair?

c) You might as well go whole hog—hairdo, manicure, pedicure, liposuction, Botox, facelift, nose job, new outfit from Versace, and sufficient makeup to cement a stone wall. Then leave half your brain cells at home and simply giggle and clutch the guy’s arm from time to time.

It seemed to me that the second option was the mature and considered choice. So on Wednesday afternoon, before I went to work, I looked up hairdressers in the Yellow Pages.

I decided I wouldn’t go to my usual place. Don’t get me wrong. It was a fine establishment and Cheryl, my hairdresser, was competent at lopping off split ends while engaging in uninspiring conversation about the weather. I just felt she was more of an artisan than an artist.

I also didn’t want to go to places that used puns in their business name. You know, things like The Final Cut or Hair Today. Don’t ask me why. Oh, go on. Ask me why. They bloody annoy me, that’s why. I refuse to hand over money to someone who thinks a weak pun is a brilliant marketing ploy. And as for anything with a
z
in it—Cutz, Endz—well, I wouldn’t advocate firebombing under any circumstances, but I understand how someone might feel it was the only solution.

In the end I decided to give Alessandro’s a go. I called for an appointment. It sounded expensive. You can tell these things from the receptionist’s tone of voice. The trouble is, you can’t ask about price on the phone, can you? I’m not sure why. It’s an immutable law, like gravity or something.

After I left Vanessa’s house, I took a bus straight to the mall. Alessandro’s was next to fashion outlets that charged three hundred bucks for a miniskirt. Alessandro’s was impressive. Black marble, a tasteful sign, spotlighting, no price list in the window. I felt inadequate just entering the place.

The receptionist gave me the once-over and didn’t appear impressed. Maybe I should have left then. I can’t stand people who think they’re doing you a favor by accepting your business. The receptionist was stick-thin, dressed in black, and sporting a hairdo that stuck out at crazy angles. Undoubtedly it was the height of fashion. I fronted up to the counter and gave my name. She scanned the appointment book and seemed disappointed to find I had indeed booked.

The hairdresser came over and gave me the same look the receptionist did. “What would you like done?” she said, studying my hair. I can’t be sure, but I think I detected a lip curling fractionally.

I’m fine in most social situations. I can talk intelligently to people. But hairdressers intimidate me. I suddenly find myself nervous and tongue-tied, as if I am not qualified to talk about my own hair.

“Well, I don’t know, really,” I said, not making the most confident start to the consultation. “A trim, I suppose. Get rid of the split ends and style it. Whatever you think.” I hated myself as soon as I made that last remark.

The hairdresser examined my hair more closely.

“We might be able to do something,” she said grudgingly, as if I’d asked her to weave a Persian carpet out of the fluff that gets stuck in the filters of tumble dryers. “Follow me, please.”

The salon was plush, I must say. There were Aboriginal paintings on the walls, the lighting was discreet, and there was more stainless-steel gadgetry dotted about than you’d find in an average operating room. I started to really worry about cost. If push came to shove, I suppose I could have offered to sweep up hair to pay the bill, but I suspected I would have to accumulate enough to occupy a landfill site. I decided to worry about it later.

It was great at first. I had to put my glasses down on a counter, which meant the Aboriginal art became decidedly more abstract, at least from my perspective. Then I leaned back in a soft leather chair and an apprentice washed my hair and massaged my scalp. There’s nothing like having someone else washing your hair. It takes you back to your childhood, when your mum used to lather your head into a frenzy. All I needed was a rubber duck to play with afterward and I would have been a happy girl.

When she had made my hair squeaky, I was led back to a seat in front of a mirror and the hairdresser combed my hair, occasionally lifting a portion off to the side, for reasons best known to herself. Certainly she didn’t keep me informed of her progress. I couldn’t see what she was doing. Without my glasses I have the visual acuity of a fruit bat. But there was plenty of prodding going on. I gazed impassively at the blurred reflection in the mirror. Finally she spoke.

“Who usually does your hair?” she said.

I told her and she grunted. I got the distinct impression she looked upon Cheryl in much the same way a brain surgeon would look upon a faith healer.

“Well,” she continued, “your hair is a challenge. It’s in appalling condition and the amateurish cuts you’ve had in the past mean there are limits to what I can do. I think it would be best if we started from scratch. I suggest we take a fair amount off the length…to about here.” She was showing me in the mirror, but I got only the haziest notion of what she meant. “Then I can style it, so it follows the curve of your cheekbones. Like this.” Again I squinted and again came up blank. “Does that sound all right?”

Now, tell me. What should you say under these circumstances? I mean, I know I hadn’t been insulted personally, but it’s difficult to keep your composure when someone is implying your hair is beneath contempt.

“Fine,” I said.

I don’t know if this has happened to you. If it hasn’t, you’ll have to trust me. There is a defining moment in a hairdresser’s when you know, absolutely and unequivocally, that a disaster is occurring. It comes with the first snip of scissors just below your left ear and the sense of hair falling. Lots of hair. Hair that can never be returned. Hair today, gone forever.

The worst part is that you know a scream of “Stop!” is going to achieve nothing, except possibly a coronary for your hairdresser.

I went rigid with terror. Sweat glistened on my forehead. The spawn-of-Satan hairdresser carried on blithely snipping, huge swathes of hair flying around manically. My head was getting lighter, literally and metaphorically. In the end I shut my eyes. I resisted the urge to stick my thumb in my mouth and start sucking, but it was difficult.

The rest of the procedure was a blur. The snipping and slicing seemed to go on forever. Then there was a vigorous massage of the scalp with something greasy and a finale with a hair dryer and comb. Eventually, she declared she was done. I stood up and put on my glasses.

It’s not often I’ve nearly lost control of my bladder, but this was touch-and-go. I looked in the mirror and Gollum in a toupee looked back. We regarded each other suspiciously for a moment before I was led to reception and presented with a bill for $110. Under other circumstances, I would have laughed derisively. This time I handed over my credit card meekly. The small part of my brain still functioning noted, in a calm and distant fashion, that this completely wiped out my checking account. I clutched the receipt, gathered up my bag, and went out into the mall.

I stood for a moment, hoping to see a bus I could throw myself under. Unfortunately, it was a mall.

Then, at my bleakest moment, I saw it. The solution. The only solution. The final solution.

I hurried across before the stall closed. I was the last customer. Ten minutes later, it was done. The Leukemia Foundation gave me a bandanna, which was a blessing, and heartfelt congratulations for doing my bit for those less fortunate than myself. I told them I’d get the money from my sponsors as soon as I could and drop the cash off at their main office.

I examined myself in a shop window. Even though you could stick two fingers up my nose and use me for a bowling ball, it was an improvement. I tied the bandanna around my completely shaved head and headed for the bus stop.

Chapter 11

A reflection on the positives in life, after mature consideration

Chapter 12

Just your average date, part one

Here’s another poser.

You have secured a date with a young man who makes Orlando Bloom look like the dog’s dinner. Unfortunately, a deranged hairdresser has viciously attacked your head, necessitating a drastic solution that has left you doing an uncanny impersonation of a potato. You put on your glasses and look in a mirror. Ears stick out of a shiny globe, like handles on a hardboiled egg. If you went out on a sunny day, you’d dazzle the pilots of passing aircraft, precipitating a major catastrophe. What are you going to do?

Do you cancel the date or go ahead and hope he doesn’t mind being seen in public with a bespectacled skinhead?

I tried other options. I went into the Fridge’s wardrobe while she was out and found a blond wig. I had no idea why she owned one. Possibly it was a remnant from some ghastly costume party. You couldn’t describe it as a top-of-the-line accessory. It had the consistency of freeze-dried straw and contained enough static electricity to run a small appliance. I put it on.

I looked like Goldilocks with breast implants.

I decided to call Jason and call the whole thing off. I mean, what choice did I have? Maybe I could rearrange it for three months’ time, when I’d look as if I was at least a candidate for the human race. I’d even called the number—my finger was poised over the last digit—when I thought again.

If I gave him the elbow now, there was no chance of reclaiming the situation. There were probably dozens of girls waiting in the wings to snap him up. Girls with washboard stomachs, master’s degrees in soccer administration, tiny halter tops, and long flowing hair that shimmered sexily as they walked. No. Jason was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

I replaced the handset.

So what if I had a head like an inflated marble? There’s more to attractiveness than the physical. I had a personality. I could be warm, charming, witty. Why should I prejudge Jason, compartmentalize him as a shallow chauvinist, when all the time he could be searching for an intelligent soul mate? For all I knew he was a closet Buddhist. To hell with it. I’d go. I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t.

I felt better once I’d made the decision, so I locked myself in my bedroom and cried for two hours.

I was buggered if I was going to school, though.

Thursday evening wasn’t too bad. I stayed in, watching Discovery while simultaneously trying to decipher the arcane mysteries of probability theory. As far as I understood it, the probability of waking up the next morning with a full head of hair was zero, while the probability of Jason dropping me like a handful of warm diarrhea was approaching one. While these amusing notions passed through my head, I kept one eye on the driveway. If the Fridge turned up, I could be in my bedroom before her key hit the front door. I needn’t have worried. Once more, the Fridge was missing in action. By the time I hit the sack at eleven o’clock, she still wasn’t home.

I slept surprisingly well and woke refreshed. For a moment or two, I had difficulty believing my recollections of the previous day and had to check myself out in the mirror. The early morning light glinted off my pate and made intricate patterns on the ceiling. The birds stopped singing. I had the cranial characteristics of a Tibetan monk.

I wrapped my head in a towel (at least I was still thinking rationally and strategically) and slipped downstairs into the kitchen. The Fridge was home—the car was parked in the driveway—but there was no sign of her. Probably still sleeping. I made toast and thought about rubbing Vegemite on my scalp, but decided against it. It probably wouldn’t do anything and I’d spend the day with a cloud of flies buzzing around my head. Or, worse, stuck to it.

Keeping my voice quiet, I called school and told them I wouldn’t be in on account of a severe inflammation of the clack picked up at work. Then I pinned a note to the Fridge on the fridge, telling her I wasn’t feeling crash-hot and needed to catch up on sleep. I padded back up the stairs and into my bedroom, where the day stretched out interminably before me. At least I’d have time to plan what I was going to wear.

I was surprised to discover my resolution to go ahead with the date hadn’t diminished overnight. If anything, all remaining doubts had vanished. If Jason was the kind of guy to be put off by someone who’d shaved her head for charity, then he could shove his impeccably fine features where the sun don’t shine. This would be a test. A test of his inner beauty. What did I have to lose?

This line of thought cheered me immensely and I turned my mind to matters of apparel. One thing was clear. I couldn’t wear any of my glasses. I tried them all, believe me. But it was impossible.

The kind of glasses I like are bold. Well, not so much bold as downright arrogant. And they wouldn’t work. Stick a brightly colored pair of specs on a cantaloupe if you don’t believe me. So this left one option. A few years previously, I had tried contact lenses. I think I was going through a self-conscious stage before I discovered that the best way of overcoming embarrassment at wearing glasses was to make them a feature. A sort of in-your-face, stuff-you-if-you-don’t-like-’em, I-couldn’t-give-a-rat’s approach.

Actually, this discovery was prompted by the physical pain involved with contact lenses. Getting the buggers in was torture. It was like sticking thumbtacks into your eyeballs. And every time I blinked I felt like confessing to crimes I hadn’t committed.

I still had the contact lenses and the expensive gunk they came in. It was time to give them another go.

I perched in front of the mirror, one lens balanced delicately on an index finger, the fingers of the other hand prying my left eyelid open, tongue sticking out the corner of my mouth in concentration. Then it was simply a case of bringing the lens onto the surface of the eyeball in one smooth, decisive action. Unfortunately, due to the reflex action that in prehistoric times was invaluable in preserving my forebears’ eyesight, I would blink at the critical moment, spinning the lens off to a corner of the bedroom, where it would disappear into the carpet. Then I’d spend half an hour finding the bloody thing, cleaning it, and going through the whole process again.

I spent the entire morning doing this before I managed to get both lenses in. Feeling proud, I stood in front of the mirror and examined the results. True, I couldn’t see much because my eyes were streaming with tears, but it didn’t seem too bad. I thought the swelling would probably subside by the time I met Jason.

That left my clothes. I could go for the bold approach. Trousers, waistcoat, maybe even a tie. Too sexually ambiguous, I decided. Or there was the feminine angle—print dress with soft, flowing lines, complemented with chunky Doc Martens. My head could act as another stylistic counterpoint at the other end. Too schizophrenic? And what about my head itself? Should I go out bareheaded, scalp gleaming in the light of streetlights, or would a scarf be better? Maybe a floppy hat? Could I keep it on throughout the movie? Dubious. With my luck, I’d sit in front of a dwarf and be forced to remove it. No, there was no way I could go the entire evening without Jason finding out. What if he tried to run his hands through my hair during the film? I could imagine his scream when he discovered he was fondling a boulder.

I had made little headway on the thorny problem of appropriate dress when I heard the Fridge leave, about three-thirty. The front door slammed and there was a crunch of tires on gravel. I waited ten minutes before I went downstairs. I’d seen too many films where an unsuspecting bald heroine had been caught by sneaky decoys like that.

I got to the front room and the phone rang. It was Candy from Crazi-Cheep.

“Hello, Calma?” she said. “I was wondering if you could work tonight. We’re short-staffed again.”

“I can’t, Candy,” I replied. “I’ve got a bone in my leg.”

There was a five-second pause.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Hope you’re better soon.”

I put the phone down and the doorbell rang. Typical, I thought. For hours the Fridge is home and open to the public and nothing happens. As soon as she leaves, it’s open house. I snuck over to the curtains. I might have mentioned already that the view from the window is not perfect, but this time I was lucky. Swirling paisley material and a glimpse of long blond hair told me Vanessa was at the door.

I didn’t hesitate. I unwrapped the towel from my head, raced to the front door, opened it sharply, and went, “Boo!” Vanessa screamed. The look on her face was priceless. I was making a habit of getting a reaction out of Nessa these days. She stood stock still for a moment, eyes glazed, her mouth describing a perfect little O. If I’d tapped her forehead with my finger, she’d have gone over like a felled tree.

“Wassup, Nessa?” I said. “Care to come in and give my skull a buff and polish?”

And then she started to laugh. Really laugh. Laugh in a way I’d never heard from Vanessa before, as if an internal barrier had been breached and what was bubbling up was fresh, pure, unstoppable. I couldn’t help myself. I laughed too, bent double, tears running down my face and threatening to wash my contact lenses onto the welcome mat. We held on to each other, lungs struggling to get air, pain like a sharp band along my side. Laughing.

Fact File

Common name:
Vanessa Aldrick

Scientific name: Hippius noncommunicado

Habitat:
This creature spends most of its time asleep to conserve energy. Can occasionally be seen searching through sad racks of clothing in secondhand shops or in the folk section of record stores.

Mating habits:
Unknown. Scientific studies are proceeding.

Appearance:
Brightly colored, the
Hippius noncommunicado
is nonetheless a retiring creature. Favors loose-flowing, garish plumage and is renowned for its inability to evolve.

Distinguishing characteristics:
Normally unresponsive to human contact, but is loyal and supportive if treated with patience and kindness.

Status:
Possesses hidden depths while appearing barely sentient.

Sometimes you think you’ve got someone pinned down and classified and then they leap up and surprise you.

Vanessa came into the house and disappeared off to the toilet, pleading a severely weakened bladder. I heard her giggling from the front room. I wiped the tears from my eyes and a thought skittered across my mind. Was this why I liked Vanessa? Because I could sometimes provoke such reactions from her, though her natural tendency was toward gloominess? Was she merely a mirror I held up to my own wit? It was an uncomfortable thought and I put it to one side. It occurred to me I was doing that a lot recently, postponing stuff. Was I a procrastinator? I’d think about it tomorrow.

When Nessa came out, we sat on the couch and I told her about my disastrous trip to the hairdresser. I didn’t even have to exaggerate for comic effect. The truth was bizarre enough. I set her off laughing again. I liked it when Vanessa laughed. She got all these sparks in her eyes. Her smile injected her face with life. She looked beautiful.

It was a pity she looked like that so rarely. Nonetheless, I reflected, she had come a long way since primary school, when a smile from Nessa coincided with the appearance of Halley’s comet. I liked to think I’d helped her in that regard. Since we’d become friends she smiled much more frequently. Vanessa had also been disastrously accident-prone. She missed heaps of days from school and would come in with bandages and Band-Aids up her arms. Fell off her bike, slipped in the shower. But not since we’d teamed up. I wasn’t sure how to put this down to my influence, but I was prepared to accept the credit.

“Listen,” she said after I finished the sad and sorry tale of my misadventures in grooming. “I’m going to the movies tonight. I swear to God I’m not going to check out Justin.”

“Jason,” I said.

“Whatever. I’m spending the weekend with Dad and I don’t want to get to his house too early. I need to kill some time.”

Nessa, like me, was in a single-parent household. Unlike me, however, she had a father who showed interest, so every month she’d spend a weekend with him. I got the impression she wasn’t keen on it. She never talked about him, for example. Mind you, she rarely talked about anything, so I suppose that wasn’t a clinching argument. It was just a feeling I had.

“Do you want to come with Jason and me?” I asked.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“No,” she said. “Not at all. I just told you in case you spotted me and thought I was spying on you.”

“Good,” I said. “I wasn’t going to invite you, anyway.”

I smiled when I said it, though, and she knew I was joking. Her eyes sparked briefly.

“Just as well you mentioned it, however,” I continued. “You’re right. I might have come to the wrong conclusion if I’d seen you in the next row hiding behind a supersized popcorn.”

Vanessa left about ten minutes later. She had to pack for her weekend stay. She touched me on the arm when we got to the front door.

“I hope you have a great time tonight, Calma,” she said. “Really. And I’m sorry I was such a loser when you told me.”

“Hey,” I said. “Forget it. And give me a hug.”

In the end, I decided on a simple outfit. Long blue fisherman’s pants, a white halter-neck top I had been saving for a special occasion, and black leather flip flops. I checked in the mirror and was pleased with what I saw. Mind you, what I could see wasn’t crystal clear. Those damn contact lenses were still giving me grief.

Oh, and I wore a dark, floppy hat. Very floppy. Completely spineless. The hat, not me. Well, me as well, when I come to think about it.

I set off very early for the date. I hadn’t intended to. My brain had issued firm instructions to the rest of my body that a lateness of at least ten minutes was required, on the grounds that this would ensure Jason would be tingly with anticipation, scanning the crowds of passersby for my face.

FastF™

I saw the Fridge.

FastF™

It was all over in a flash, a fraction of a second, a single frame in the spool of time. Too quick to be sure.