In Good Company: Not Too Much Off
...Our eldest had a pre-wedding set and shampoo – a rehearsal for the big day. She put her waist length hair in the hands of a recommended stylist. Unfortunately, once it was shampooed he couldn’t do a thing with it. He tried everything - when hairspray failed he tried prayer...
Enid Blackburn tells of a day in the hairdressing salon.
'Please go with me,’ pleads our seventeen-year-old, ‘You can explain how I want it.’
Well it would be a pleasant change to watch hair falling instead of snow – especially someone else’s.
We rehearsed my part all the way to town ‘Not too much off – but fairly short at the sides.’ Once we enter the salon my act is drastically slashed to ‘Sit there and don’t say anything – please.’
A sulky lass comes out from under her hair and leads daughter towards the row of washbasins. Opposite my seat, a lad with a delicate air is discussing styles with a wet-haired youth in a chair. His locks are pushed forward until he resembles Li’l Abner. He grins and shrugs his shoulders sardonically as the hairdresser goes into a creative trance. Males seem to have this ‘You’ll never do anything with this lot, mate,’ unlike the feminine approach, ‘You’d better do a lot with this.’
Meanwhile a worried looking matron in a headscarf creeps in and proceeds to thumb frantically through a pile of glossy mags. ‘I am going curly,’ she explains.
Do these photographic models ever run a comb through their own hair I muse, or have to face unexpurgated family opinions when they do? Is one born with natural good looks, as Raquel Welch confessed she was. Or does beauty come expensive?
Our eldest had a pre-wedding set and shampoo – a rehearsal for the big day. She put her waist length hair in the hands of a recommended stylist. Unfortunately, once it was shampooed he couldn’t do a thing with it. He tried everything - when hairspray failed he tried prayer.
Neither sprayer nor prayer had any effect. He called his mate over for an estimate and they let her off at half price.
We tend to believe the advertisers legends – the right style could transform our lives. Town centre salons have another occupational hazard. ‘I know my appointment is for tomorrow,’ a young mother bustles in, ‘but seeing as I was passing – perhaps you could do it now.’
The old helmet dryer is being replaced by that coward’s curse, the scalp-scorching hand dryer. I had a dread of being left under the old type, a forgotten rissole in the busy arrival/departure world. Either that or sometimes when my small head was buried in that claustrophobic dome, I might get electrocuted. My mother never had this problem, when she’s had enough she lifts the top and removes her own rollers.
In this particular salon shirts and jeans have replaced nylon overalls. Big chief curly-top wears a draughtboard check shirt and blonde linen trousers. He’s a bundle of fun, miming to the background pop music as he snips. Very amusing to watch if you’re not under the scissors.
A completed customer, who has just spent 45 minutes being tongued and blown, gratefully admires her straight locks. I can tell by daughter’s tragic eye signals that it’s her turn to be cut. The stylist is a true artist. Sitting here with the warm windy breeze tormenting the weary-looking remains of my last perm, I wonder if perhaps a bouncy bob would be the answer. I’m still looking for a style I can live with longer than a month. Sometimes I think it would be simpler to have my face changed to suit my hair. Ah, pay time at last - £3.80 please. Daughter beaming her thanks while I beam the money. ‘Yes, a trim in a month.’ She is madly in love with her new look, right until we close the salon door.
By the time we reach the bus, her head is bowed low under the burden of her ruin. We all know whose fault it is – of course. ‘Why didn’t you say something, it’s horrid?’
