Making It Up As I Go Along (7 page)

It’s the old story. Girl meets hairdresser.
Girl falls in love with hairdresser. Girl falls out of love with hairdresser and in love with
another hairdresser who works at the same saloon. Girl is doomed to a lifetime of yearning and
bad hair. The end.

Here’s my story. I had a hairdresser,
we’ll call him Eric. He was competent but unimaginative, even a little surly, but
I’d previously been through the Hairdresser Wars, so I was grateful for someone who
didn’t try to ‘challenge’ me and who didn’t push me out of my comfort
zone with high-maintenance cuts and edgy new products that I didn’t know how to use. (Salt
spray, anyone?) Also, I liked that he spoke very little, as I believe that excessive small talk
damages the immune system. Eric suited me.

However, when Eric went on holiday I was shunted
on to Sabrina (not her real name). I told her what I wanted, knowing that she would completely
ignore me and give me Blowdry of the Week, the strange combover-from-the-back they were sending
everyone else out with, and I consoled myself with the fact that at least my hair would be
clean. But when she switched off her dryer I was astonished and humbled. She had done exactly
what I had asked for. This Sabrina ‘got’ me in a way Eric never had. A happier
future unfurled ahead of me. I saw myself running in slow motion down a hill, with my really,
really nice hair bouncing behind me. I wanted Sabrina to be my hairdresser for ever. Then
the cold truth hit me. There was no way I could have her. I was sworn to
another. Everyone, from the top down – i.e. the terrifying receptionist – knew I was
Eric’s client.

There was nothing I could do. There’s no
protocol for breaking up with your hairdresser. If I had wanted to end my marriage it would have
been easier. I’d say, ‘We need to talk.’ Then, ‘It’s not you,
it’s me.’ Or, ‘I just can’t do this any more’ (the current
favourite phrase from relationship-enders), and that would be it. I’d be free!

The same problem applies to same-sex friendships.
I had a friend and we used to see each other a lot, then we didn’t see each other so
often, then when I did see her I found myself thinking, ‘Was she …
always
so stingy?’ And, ‘God, I wish she’d stop “weighing” me’
(checking me out not-very-discreetly to see how much fatter I’d got since the last time
we’d met). Quite simply we had – yes! – drifted apart. But until the end of
time we’ll have to meet up three times a year and squeeze out enough conversation to fill
two miserable hours and go home sapped of the will to live, knowing we’ll have to do it
all again in four months’ time.

But back to Eric and Sabrina. I embarked on a
course of subterfuge, like having an affair. ‘Secret’ appointments –
Eric’s day off was Thursday, so I started booking all my appointments for Thursdays and
faking disappointment when I heard that Eric wasn’t in, then very, very quickly, in a
high, tight voice, suggesting that perhaps Sabrina could do me instead. But it didn’t
always suit me to come on Thursdays, so more imaginative manipulation was called for. I’d
ring and ask what times Eric was available and would murmur, ‘Oh dear, no, I can’t
do nine. Or ten. Or eleven. Isn’t that a bummer?’ Only when I’d established
the one hour of the day when Eric
wasn’t
available, would I be able to say,
‘But sadly, that’s the very time I want to come in.’

The thing is – and you
might find this hard to believe if you’ve had as many hair disasters as I have –
that hairdressers are not stupid. They have a low territorial cunning and hair saloons are
snakepits, hotbeds of bitchiness, where each stylist regards all the others as mortal rivals and
clients are jealously guarded. Eric noticed my absence but he couldn’t front me up and
tearfully accuse me of playing away. He had to content himself with giving me wounded
passive-aggressive smiles whenever I took my place at Sabrina’s station.

Then! Everything changed! Eric got a job at
another saloon! He invited me to jump ship with him, and as I stuttered my excuses his eyes
locked with mine in the mirror and he said silkily, ‘Unless you’d prefer to stay
with Sabrina.’ Having delivered his killer blow, he turned on his heel and stalked away
with dignity, and although I was now free to openly love Sabrina, the whole thing felt a little
sour.

It’s all very tricky. At the moment I want
to break up with my dentist. His waiting room has a very poor magazine selection and he’s
mingy with his post-surgery painkillers. (My friend’s dentist gives out Vicodin like
they’re Smarties.) But I can’t just abruptly abandon my dentist for Vicodin-man, he
has all my notes; somehow I’ll have to get them off him.

It seems that the only time you can properly
break up with someone is if you’ve slept with them, and am I being unreasonable in not
wanting to have sex with my dentist in order that I can go elsewhere?

But what else am I to do?

First published in
You
, April 2008.

As we established in the previous piece, I’m
very lucky because I have a lovely hairdresser and I’ve gone to her for a long time and I
really like her and she never keeps me waiting and she does exactly as I ask and she never
suggests that it might be ‘Time for a change’, and when I ask her to take half an
inch off the ends, she takes half an inch off the ends and not half a foot, and when I took a
notion and wanted colouredy extensions, she didn’t shriek, ‘What?! At your
age?!’ She simply calmly went and organized the colouredy extensions. And when I said to
her recently, ‘I’d like to change my colour,’ she changed my colour. And when
I didn’t like it, I was able to say, ‘I don’t know about this … could we
try something else?’ And she calmly complied and she didn’t take offence and I knew
she wouldn’t take offence and I am very lucky.

However, recently (I’ll be vague about
dates because I don’t want the poor chap to be identifiable) I was away from home and
wanted to have my hair blow-dried and so I went to a hairdresser’s that I’d never
been to before. This hairdresser’s is part of a chain and I think that always make things
worse because they have rigid and elaborate customer-humiliating protocols in place. Anyway, the
second I stepped through the doors, it all came rushing back to me! The power struggle for
ownership of your spirit that goes on in most hairdresser’s.

The idea is that they break
you, break your spirit entirely, and when they’ve reduced you to a nothing with no sense
of self, with no voice of your own, then they will rebuild you in their image and you will do
exactly what they tell you to do and use the products that they sell you, and perhaps even buy a
hairdryer and maybe even a house from them. They
own
you – soul, hair,
everything.

But I can help you. I have a guide right here to
help you!

Step One: The Arrival. When you arrive, the
receptionist will ignore you – they will be on the phone or pretend to be checking
something in their book or on their screen. They are not bad people, they are simply doing what
they’ve been trained to do. In the past I used to stand there like an anxious sap, staring
miserably, trying to catch their eye, thinking, ‘Please look at me, please don’t
make me feel invisible.’ But you don’t have to be like me. Oh no! Instead, take out
your phone! Call a good friend, someone you haven’t seen for a while, and commence a warm
and lengthy catch-up!

Step Two: The Coat Removal. When you have
finished your call – and take your time about it,
enjoy
your chat – the
receptionist will offer to take your coat. Be vigilant! This is where the second blow to your
self-esteem will be struck. Some ‘friendly’ comment will be made on your appearance.
On my visit a few days ago the person said, ‘Well! You’re very colourful
today!’ Then he exchanged a look with his colleague and a silent snigger passed between
them.

There was one time when a hairdresser’s
receptionist stared at my handbag and said, ‘Is that Prada?’ And when I said it was,
he said, ‘From the cheap range?’ (This is an honest-to-God,
swear-on-my-nephew’s-life fact. I could actually tell you this man’s name, but
of course I won’t.) Do not think that you will avoid this essential part of the
humiliation process by having no coat to give. ‘No coat?’ they will say, all
wide-eyed and scornful. ‘Well! Let’s hope it doesn’t rain.’

There are a couple of ways of dealing with Step
Two. You can fight fire with fire and respond in kind with some comment on
their
appearance. For example, ‘I love your spots. They’re so …’ cough,
snigger ‘…
youthful
.’ Or you can do something totally different. You
can stare at them, hold their gaze and think the words, ‘I feel boundless compassion for
you.’ Hold the gaze for a couple of seconds longer than is considered mannerly and force
love out from behind your eyes. This will badly rattle them.

Step Three: The Wait. ‘Elijah will be down
in a moment,’ the receptionist will tell you. But as we all know, Elijah will NOT be down
in a moment. Elijah will be down when it suits him. Elijah is on Twitter, trolling his ex. Or
Elijah is out the back having a cigarette. Or indeed Elijah may be doing nothing and may be keen
to see you. But he cannot! Alas, he cannot! Because rules are rules and The Wait is vital
– it says to the client, ‘Your time is as nothing. You are blessed to be in here and
it’s important that you know it.’

There are a couple of ways to address The Wait.
You could walk out – I’ve done it once or twice. Or you could decide to draw up a
list of everyone you’ve ever slept with. Take out a pen and notebook that you’ve
brought specially for this purpose and start. Be rigorous. One-night stands, everything.
Don’t forget people you ‘met’ on holiday. Rack your brains good and proper. At
some point Elijah will appear and you will be expected to jump to your feet. My orders to you
are DO NOT! Finish your list. When you
are finished – and I want you
to do a thorough job – then and only then may you look up at him. If you feel you could
manage to, I beg you to quirk an eyebrow at Elijah and say, ‘Ready then?’ Practise
this at home if you don’t feel confident you can do it for the first time in the
saloon.

Step Four: The Gown. Elijah will hold it in a
way that no matter how you try to get into it, it will be wrong. If you try to go in front-ways,
it will be like a coat. If you approach it like a coat it will have to be put on over your head.
Indeed, rumour has reached me that some hairdressers are inventing onesie gowns that you have to
step into, feet first. I’ve discovered that I cannot out-think them in this matter. The
only thing I can suggest is that you say, ‘Okay, Elijah, you win round four.’

Step Five: The Consultation. Be alert:
this
is the central part of the process.
This is when the real meat of the breaking happens.
This is where you sit in front of the mirror and Elijah will lift a piece of your hair and
contemptuously let it fall again. He will lift another strand and, in disgust, drop it. If
everyone has done their job right, you will be close to tears at this point. Then Elijah will
say, ‘So what happened here?’

Usually I stammer, ‘How do you mean?’

And Elijah will say, ‘Well, it’s a
disaster. Did you get it cut like this for charity? Sort of like a Movember thing?’

‘… but …’

‘And the condition! It’s so dry
it’s breaking off in my hands.’

Then he will ask the most leading question you
will be asked in your visit. He will say, ‘What do you use for your home care
regime?’ And this is where you need to have your answers ready, my amigos. The very best
thing you can do is to lift your chin,
meet his eye in the mirror and say
scornfully, ‘Home care? I
never
blow-dry my hair myself! My hairdresser comes to
my house every morning at seven.’

However, if you feel you can’t manage to
pull this off, there are a couple of alternatives. You can say, ‘I use Frédéric
Fekkai.’ (This is the most expensive hair range that I know of.) ‘Admittedly,
Elijah, it costs an arm and a leg but it’s worth it, right? I’ve just started using
that overnight conditioner, the one that costs 195 quid a bottle and I find it perrrr.ittty
immmp.ressive. In fact, Elijah, your
own
hair is looking a bit banjoed, you could do
with some yourself. I’ve got a bottle here in my bag. I can give it to you for …
let’s say … £220?’

OR you could say, ‘I use Majestic
Gold,’ and Elijah will curl his lip and say ‘What?’ (Because you’ve just
made it up.) And you will say, ‘Oh yes. It’s from the United Arab Emirates.
Next-generation haircare. Miracle stuff. It’s, like, literally the most expensive range on
the planet.’ Pause and give a little tinkle of a laugh. ‘They use real gold in it. I
hear they’re starting to use it in —’ And here you will mention their nearest
rival.

OR you can say, ‘Elijah, you know and I
know that my hair is fine. I know you’re going to try and sell me an expensive
conditioner. But, Elijah, here’s how it is. I have enough money to buy the conditioner or
I have enough money to give you a tip. But I don’t have enough money to do both.
It’s up to you. You decide.’

You must plump for one of these options. A stand
must
be taken. Else when you go to the till, you’ll find a little bag with rope
handles waiting for you.

Step Six: The Hairwash. You will be taken to a
basin and a child who dreams of being on the minimum wage will ask if you
would like a head massage. You will say yes. The child will place their thumbs on your
skull and press twice. The massage is now over.

Step Seven: The Blow-dry. It all depends. It
might go okay. Elijah might do what you ask. Or he might not. It depends on how bitter he is
that you didn’t buy the conditioner.

Step Eight: The Conversation. Elijah will fire
an opening salvo by asking if you’ve been on holidays recently. You can shut things down
fast by saying, ‘I haven’t been anywhere for a while. Not since they made me
surrender my passport.’

Step Nine: The Hairspray. Be a good girl and
take your medicine. Open your clob and let Elijah spray in a mouthful. Don’t drag it out.

Step Ten: The Removal of the Gown. You will
stand up and expect Elijah to start untying bows. He won’t. You will have to do it
yourself.

Step Eleven: The Stealthy Sell. When you go to
the till to pay, the receptionist person will say in a sing-songy casual way, ‘Did you
want to take any products,
at all?’ And you will see the conditioner
Elijah tried to flog you sitting there, gazing at you hopefully like a puppy in an abandoned
dog’s home. Just say no. Again.

Step Twelve: Your Next Appointment.
Super-casually, the receptionist will ask, ‘When will I book you in for your next
appointment, at all?’ Are you brave enough to say, ‘When hell freezes over’? I
confess I haven’t yet been, but I hope one day I will be.

Step Thirteen: The Return of Your Coat. The
receptionist will ask, ‘What’s your coat like?’

‘It’s blue.’

‘Reeeeealllly?’ A blue coat? How
… well … hysterical!

They’ll disappear into a little cubbyhole
and while they’re in there they’ll eat a Twirl and check their texts. Some time
later they’ll re-emerge, swallowing down the last of their chocolate, and say, ‘No
blue coats.’ They’ll look at you like you’re a halfwit who can’t even
remember what they put on that morning.

‘But there must be. It has a hood
–’

‘A
hood
?!’

There will be a moment when you think, ‘Why
would I want a blue coat with a hood? Wouldn’t I just be better leaving without
it?’

Stand your ground, I urge you. Stand your ground.
Make them go back in.

After a while they’ll come out dragging a
rag along the floor. It will be your coat. Feigning astonishment that anyone would wear such a
thing, they’ll ask, ‘Is
this
it?’

Shame will have you teetering on a knife edge.
You really will consider denying it and just running away. Don’t. It is your coat. You
bought it because you loved it. Don’t abandon it.

Very accusingly the receptionist will say,
‘It was under a pile of other coats.’

Do NOT apologize.

The Final Humiliation: Putting Your Coat On. The
receptionist will go behind you and pretend to help you into your coat, but in
reality they will be pinching the armholes closed so you will flail around, like
you’re doing the upright backstroke, wondering why you’re so useless.

Just take your coat from them and say,
‘I’ll do it myself.’

There we are, I hope this hard-won experience is
in some way helpful. May I just state again that I love my hairdresser, so obviously not all of
them are horrible.

mariankeyes.com
,
January 2013.