by Lindsey Kelk
‘It is and you can,’ she confirmed. ‘You know what, I’m really bloody good at my job.’
I had to admit she was right. ‘You are,’ I agreed, eyes locked on my own hair, a smile spreading across my face. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘You’re going to need to come in for the roots doing about once a month, same for fringe trims and I’ll show you which shampoo and conditioner you need …’
Tina continued to outline the aftercare my new hair required but I really wasn’t listening. I was too busy imagining my new do swishing around town. Redhead Rachel sipping cocktails at Bourne & Hollingsworth. Redhead Rachel laughing with friends on Primrose Hill. Redhead Rachel and her sophisticated date enjoying dinner at … well, somewhere I hadn’t been before because I’d never been on a date with a sophisticated man. While she debated with herself over the benefits of a colour-depositing shampoo over a colour-preserving conditioner, I reached into my handbag and pulled out the tatty napkin. Makeover. Done. I placed a very large, very satisfying tick beside Matthew’s scrawl and smiled happily. Genuine happiness. It felt strange. And nice.
‘Wow. You look amazing.’
Oh. A very handsome man appeared in the mirror at the side of me.
‘Seriously, you look beautiful.’ He reached out to run his hands through my hair, making me jump. This also felt strange and nice. Behold the power of the list! A strange, hot man was touching me without prompting! So what if it was only because he had a vested professional interest?
‘Yuh-huh,’ something that was supposed to sound like a laugh but came out sounding a little bit more like a sneezing donkey. Always attractive.
I wasn’t good at accepting compliments. It had been a while since I’d had one that wasn’t from my mum. OK, so he obviously worked here and was obliged to tell me my hair looked nice, but still. ‘I looked shit before.’
‘OK then.’ His smile faltered slightly. Well, this was only stage one of the transformation. Fail.
‘I think you look stunning.’ Emelie sidled up to him, slipping her hand up his arm and putting on her best Bambi eyes. ‘Doesn’t she look beautiful? Doesn’t she look as though she was born to be a redhead?’
‘She does.’ The light reappeared in his eyes at Em’s touch. How did she do that? How did anyone flirt successfully? It really was a mystery as to how I’d ever snagged Simon in the first place. Oh wait a minute, no it wasn’t. Wedding reception, open bar, awkward snog and then, before I really knew what was happening, we were watching EastEnders at his parents’ house on Christmas Day. One of my friends was going to have to stop being so bloody selfish and get married soon or I’d be stuck telling hot hairdressers I looked shit until some middle-aged divorced neighbour took pity on me and marched me down the register office.
I went back to marvelling at my hair while Em flirted with Hot Hairdresser, leaving Tina to fuss around with the ends of my new do.
‘Seriously, Tina, thanks so much.’ Standing up was challenging, after three hours on my arse. My legs felt like jelly. ‘If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know.’
‘Actually,’ she tapped glossy navy blue nails against her fuchsia lips, ‘there is something. Dan Fraser. You two are big mates, aren’t you?’
I wrinkled my nose. Ooh, even that looked cute with my new hair. More like a playful minx and less like a truffle pig. ‘I wouldn’t say big mates, but we work together a lot.’
‘You’ve got his number though? He never answers on Facebook.’
I genuinely couldn’t cover up my surprise. ‘You want Dan’s phone number?’
‘I want more than his phone number,’ she replied. Ew. ‘I’ve had my eye on that for years, but whenever I’ve managed to get a job with him, he’s been in a serious relationship.’ She stuck her fingers down her throat and gagged. ‘Criminal.’
What was the polite way of telling the woman who’d just totally transformed your hair for free that Dan Fraser hadn’t had a girlfriend in the six years I’d known him, serious or otherwise. Mostly because he was too busy shagging every model stupid enough to fall for his lines. Unsurprisingly that was quite a lot of models.
‘Yes. He has had a number of very serious girlfriends.’
If in doubt, lie.
‘But I just thought, you know, fuck it. May as well send him a text outlining exactly what I’m offering. Nothing to lose at this point.’
Oh dear god, she was disgusting. I needed to be more like this.
‘Right. Despite his very serious girlfriends?’
‘I heard he was shagging Ana now. That can’t be serious, can it? She’s a right slag.’ She pulled the smock from around my shoulders. My T-shirt looked so sad next to my fabulous new hair. ‘More of a slag than me.’
‘Yeah, she is,’ I waited for Tina to be offended. I’d have been waiting a long time. ‘She’s a massive slag.’
At last, something that wasn’t a lie.
‘So you’ve got his number?’ Tina raised an eyebrow and pulled an iPhone out of her back pocket. Against my better judgement, I took out mine and read out Dan’s number. I knew I felt bad for facilitating this, but I wasn’t sure for whom. Tina, who was going to get shot down, or Dan, who was going to have to do the shooting. All I knew was that I really wanted to listen in on the phone call.
‘I think maybe the Ana thing might be a bit serious, so don’t get – you know – upset if he doesn’t reply.’ It was the best I could do without screaming ‘you deluded cow’ in her face. ‘And he’s not very good at replying to texts.’
Aaand right back to the lies.
‘You could always put a good word in for me,’ she suggested. ‘Tell him how amazing I am.’
‘Why not?’ Redhead Rachel was a natural. I’d already started lying, may as well carry on.
Hot Hairdresser was giving Em his card, presumably not to organize a shampoo and set, and Tina was already busy texting Dan while I stood quietly in the corner, clutching my bag and hoping the popular girls would hurry up. Oh dear god, it was Year Ten all over again. Except this time I had a bright red bob instead of Sun-In streaks. This was a vast improvement.
‘All right, bye then.’ I gave Tina an awkward half-hug and grabbed hold of Em’s hand. ‘Thanks again.’
‘You can be my bridesmaid.’ She fluffed up my hair one more time. ‘As long as you’ve never shagged him, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
I had more chance of marrying Dan than she did. Matthew had more chance of marrying Dan than she did.
Regent Street on a Sunday. Usually, central London at the weekend was my idea of torture, but this time every single bum-bag-wearing tourist was just another admirer, put on Earth to give my hair a second glance. Those lucky, lucky people. I skipped through the crowds, Emelie pulling me along as she scooted off to some undeclared destination. After a couple of busy minutes, she dragged me down a considerably quieter side road, just off Carnaby Street.
‘Dude, that hairdresser was totally into you.’ Em wrapped her arms around my neck, after we’d found a few feet of space to claim as our own. ‘Didn’t you think he was cute?’
‘Yes,’ I breathed in deeply, trying to get the scent of hair dye out of my lungs. ‘But I didn’t know what to say. And he was only talking to me to get to you, anyway.’
‘Whatever.’ She jumped on my back in a half-piggy-back. Which was difficult given that she was at least four inches taller than me. ‘You need to get more confidence. That hair does not blush at hot men and fade into the background. It doesn’t wear baggy-kneed leggings and drink cheap white wine in The Lexington.’
I looked down at my regulation leggings and T-shirt uniform. She had a point. Oh dear god, there was going to have to be shopping.
I was terrified of shopping.
‘Even if we just get you a pair of jeans?’ Em bargained.
Jeans were the hardest thing! Nothing was designed to destroy your self-esteem like the purchase of new denim unless you were six feet tall and a size zero.
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��Rach, the hair wants new clothes.’ She placed a convincing hand on my arm. ‘It wants pretty things. It wants to have fun. Your outfit wants to go back to some sort of eastern European country and eat potatoes. Do you feel good about that?’
‘There does seem to be a bit of a mismatch.’ I caught the coppery tones out of the corner of my eye. My hair was red. ‘Maybe a tiny little mini bit of shopping? But not jeans.’
Before she could reply, I spotted a not-at-all unattractive man nudge his not-at-all unattractive friend and give us the eye. Men! Men were looking at us! And not a man who was contractually obliged to compliment me on my hair just because he worked in the salon where it had been coloured!
‘Right, this is happening then,’ she linked her arm through mine. ‘I’m fairly certain that list of yours says complete transformation You look amazing. You look like cocktail dresses, dirty martinis and never paying for dinner. I like.’
‘Who knew hair could say so much?’ I asked, checking it out in a shop window. Yep, still there. Still red. As was the amazing azure blue silk shift dress staring back at me on the other side of the glass. ‘Em, my hair says it wants that dress.’
‘Yes it does,’ Em agreed. ‘And who are we to say no to it?’
Stepping inside the store was like travelling back in time. My experience of shopping in central London was usually limited to a smash and grab through M&S’s lingerie department, a speedy spin through Topshop or standing outside Primark while Emelie took one for the team. I wasn’t qualified for Primark. This place was something else. Rows of beautiful block colours lined one wall while the other was covered in a million different patterns, each and every one of them glistening silk or crinkling crinolines. It was clearly vintage heaven. And if I was out of my depth in Primark, I wasn’t even experienced enough to cross the threshold of this place. Nope, I told myself, daring to press a finger against a delicate lace glove hanging elegantly out of a battered old suitcase. Old Rachel would never have come in here. New Rachel would totally come in here. Which made a lot of sense given that I was actually already inside and someone was going to have to rein in Emelie and her overspending.
‘Everything is so beautiful.’ My mother had always been a huge advocate of the ‘look but don’t touch’ school of shopping when said shop did not have visible price tags. This was such an establishment, but I just couldn’t keep my mitts off the beautiful, beautiful things. ‘I just want all of it.’
‘The hair has spoken.’ Em held up a gorgeous sky blue dress. It looked like silk, square neckline, sleeveless, tiny fitted waist and a flirty flared skirt. It was the kind of dress a girl who always curled the ends of her hair would wear. A girl who matched her handbag to her shoes. In other words, any girl who wasn’t me. ‘Try this on.’
‘Can I open a fitting room for you?’ The girl I’d just described in my head appeared from nowhere and took the dress from Emelie. Resplendent in a coral polka-dot wrap dress, Mary Jane shoes and white ankle socks, she gave us both a grin and nodded for us to follow. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’
‘Everything,’ Em answered before I could open my mouth. ‘We’re in the middle of a bit of a style overhaul.’
‘I just coloured my hair,’ I added. ‘I’m just looking to try some new stuff, dresses aren’t usually my thing.’
‘We’d better get to changing that quickly then.’ The shop girl opened a large wooden door and shooed us inside the changing room. Not that you could really call it a changing room; it was like walking onto a set, all duck-egg blue walls, three huge freestanding mirrors and a pair of overstuffed chaise lounges. My hair was perfectly at home but oh my, how my outfit let me down. I looked back at the dresses hanging outside the changing room. How was this bigger than the entire rest of the shop? It was like a fashion Tardis. ‘You’ve got a great shape for vintage, everything tends to run a little bit small. Let me pull some pieces. Just dresses?’
‘Anything you think would work.’ My heart raced at the idea that being a short-arse would be paying off for the first time ever, and at the sight of all the different colours being pulled from the racks out front. For someone who only really wore monochrome, this was like taking couture LSD. I saw ice blues, pale yellows, jade greens, stripes, spots, florals and solids, all coming my way.
‘Most of these are vintage.’ Shop Girl transferred the outfits from her arms to the hanging rail in my changing boudoir. ‘But there are a couple of new pieces as well. There’s nothing too out there, it’s all very wearable, I promise.’
Apparently she could see the fear in my eyes.
‘I’ve just never worn anything so pretty before,’ I blushed. It was shameful. ‘I don’t know when I’d wear it.’
Shop Girl looked as if she understood. Or at least as if she really wanted to make a sale.
‘Every day when I get dressed, I think, what do I wish would happen today? And I dress for that. I’d never forgive myself if Johnny Depp walked by and asked me to join him in Monte Carlo for the weekend and I was wearing jeans. I would totally get over being in the queue for a lottery ticket in high heels.’
You couldn’t argue with the woman, really.
‘I’ll be outside, give me a shout when you’re done.’ She closed the door behind her and left me and Emelie alone to play dress-up.
‘Get this one on before I buy it first.’ Em threw the sky blue silk at me. ‘It might be the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.’
Disappearing behind the curtain and trying not to be too ashamed of my old underwear, I slipped into the new dress. The sensation of the cool silk against my skin combined with the sight of my bouncy bob in the mirror was enough to draw out a gasp. The dress was beautiful. My hair was beautiful. My big dark circles and dull skin were not beautiful. But still.
‘Oh Rach.’ Emelie stuck her head around the curtain. ‘You look like a girl.’
‘Thanks,’ nothing like a backhanded compliment to make you bounce up and down with joy. ‘I feel like a girl. It’s weird.’
But some sort of girl-instinct kicked in and, before I knew it, I couldn’t stop twisting backwards and forwards at the waist, making the dress flare and kick out. I was like a little girl in her birthday frock. Not that my mother had ever put me in a birthday frock for fear of me scratching out her eyes. Even though I was the older sibling, I’d spent most of my childhood in Paul’s hand-me-downs. Jeans were much more practical for climbing trees and riding bikes. It was a mystery to everyone how I’d ended up as a make-up artist. Made total sense to me; I’d been living vicariously through my models for years but now I was done with vicarious living. Time to give actual life a go.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said to the mirror as much to Emelie. ‘I just can’t imagine wearing it.’
‘What’s to imagine?’ She snapped a pic with her phone. ‘You’re wearing it. Now take it off and get the yellow one on.’
Emelie and the world’s best shop assistant had a point. Just because I’d never worn a dress down to Tesco before didn’t mean I couldn’t start now. Probably wouldn’t pop down to the post office in the floor-length emerald green silk gown Em was admiring at that second, but I could see myself chowing down on a tuna niçoise at Pizza Express in this cute little sundress.
‘Oh, look at you,’ Shop Girl reappeared at the door. ‘Betty and Joan all rolled into one.’
‘We’re not doing Mad Men references right now.’ Em drew a finger across her throat. ‘But you’re so right.’
Betty and Joan all rolled into one? That was a lot of pressure on a girl who wasn’t even a Peggy twelve hours ago. The stress must have registered on my face.
‘Try on the stripes.’ Shop Girl pointed at a black and white number hanging on the rail. ‘Your friend and I can pick out some shoes.’
Without even knowing, she’d used Emelie’s magic word. That girl would leave me to burn in a fire at the first sniff of a kitten heel. Alone for the first time since I’d GI Jane’d myself, it was strange not to have the buzz of
reassuring chatter around me. And it was even stranger to see myself with new hair, a new dress, a new look in my eyes. Time for another professional appraisal. The hair certainly looked better and the dress really did fit me wonderfully. The full fitted skirt was sympathetic to the Christmas weight around my thighs (Christmas weight I was still carrying around in August) and gave me a waist that really wasn’t there. The colour, a pale dandelion yellow decorated with tiny white swallows, was so delicate, and the fitted bodice, with its tiny little tie-up straps, would really only work on someone who didn’t have much in the way of boobs, e.g. me. At last, a reward for suffering the nickname ‘Two Backs Summers’ all through Year Eleven. I could honestly say, in this dress, I looked pretty. And since the biggest compliment I could pay any of my old outfits was ‘I’m not naked’, that pretty much meant I was sold. On pretty much everything.
A couple of hours and one awkward conversation with the credit-card company regarding ‘unusual activity’ later, Emelie and I fell through my front door, heavy on shopping bags and light on cash.
‘What do you want to do now?’ Em asked, cheeks flushed with the fever of her own spending spree. ‘Dinner?’
‘Nope,’ I yelled from the hallway. ‘Matthew, bin bag.’
Without stopping to take off my shoes, I marched straight into the bedroom and pulled open my wardrobe door. I was a woman on a mission. Jeans. T-shirts. Baggy jumpers. Old dresses that were too big, too small or just OK. Not a single thing I’d want to be seen out in should I run into Ryan Reynolds down the post office. Which meant they all had to go in the bin. Where was the point in chopping my hair off, going red, buying enough new dresses to clothe India and then falling back into old, sloppy, knackered habits? With one swoop, I scooped all my old clothes into the bag Matthew was holding open, before moving on to the drawers. I didn’t flinch once. There wasn’t a single item that tugged at my heartstrings and begged to stay. Nothing sentimental, nothing so pretty it begged for a second chance. Every single item accepted defeat gracefully. It didn’t take long before everything baggy and saggy and slightly grey was gone, replaced by a rainbow of pretty dresses, each and every one worthy of an A-list lover. It was a miracle.
