‘You’ve gone awfully pale, mate.’
‘I think I’ll get going.’
Trevor followed me through the house to the front door. He looked back over his shoulder before speaking. ‘I was sorry for Norm. He was a nice young man.’
I nodded. I wanted to thank Trevor but my chin was trembling.
‘He did the right thing getting out and starting over again. He would’ve regretted staying on.’ Trevor looked into the distance. ‘It’s a terrible thing to live with regret.’
I took a roundabout route home to avoid Sidney Merle Memorial Park and ended up near a small row of shops I’d never seen before. Something in a window caught my eye and made me stop. It was a small notice on pink paper: ‘URGENT APPRENTICE WANTED’.
I looked up at the shop sign. It was a hairdressing salon called the Curl Up and Dye. A bell tinkled as I pushed open the door. A woman appeared. She could’ve been fifty or seventy. The busy network of wrinkles on her face were either the normal wear and tear of age or the premature effects of cigarettes and Australian sun. Her hair was a big teased-up ball of tobacco-coloured fluff but her eyes were alive. They glittered like two shiny currants.
‘Yes, love, what can I do you for?’
‘I saw the notice. I wasn’t sure you were open.’
‘I opened up special for a lady customer.’
‘On a public holiday?’
‘Just doing my bit. The lady’s in an unhappy marriage.’ She held out a small hand. ‘I’m Dot, love.’
‘Julian.’
‘Your name’s got religious significance.’
The woman’s hand radiated warmth. It flowed up my arm and into my chest. I felt like crying again. My eyes watered.
‘There’s no need for all that. Sit yourself down. I’ve just made a pot of tea.’
Dot came back with a tray of tea things and a plate of Easter eggs. ‘The customers give them to me but I’ll ruin my dentures if I eat them all.’ She laughed, a raw smoker’s laugh. ‘So you might be interested in hairdressing?’
‘I don’t know. I’m no good at anything else.’ I knew it was wrong to tell the truth in a job interview but I was on the verge of tears and felt flippy-floppy. ‘I like hair. I mean…I love hair. Hair and fashion. And make-up.’
‘That’s a start. I’d call that passion.’
‘I’ve always done Mum’s hair. Not so much lately. Not since she got a fancy man.’
‘You’ve had some experience then.’
‘And I’ve got no job and no money.’
‘Motivation.’ Dot nudged the chocolate my way.
‘My uncle’s a hairdresser.’
‘So it’s in your blood.’ She refilled our cups with tea. ‘When can you start?’
‘You mean I’ve got the job?’ I couldn’t believe it. An image of myself doing Elizabeth Taylor’s hair flashed through my mind. My eyes filled again.
‘It’s an apprenticeship, love. You’ll be learning a trade, earning yourself a qualification.’ Dot refilled my cup. ‘The job’s yours on one condition.’
I stopped eating and swallowed hard.
‘You’ve got to let me cut that ginger shite off your head. Why on earth did you go ginger when you’ve got a lovely head of black Irish hair?’
‘I got it done at the Brush Off. Philippe’s exclusive.’
‘Don’t believe everything you hear. Smoke and mirrors, love. He’s made a right mess of your do.’
32
I finished ironing my candy-striped shirt and headed for The Ensuite. I couldn’t wait to tell Mum about the new job. It was time to forgive and forget. I pushed open her door without knocking and stopped in the doorway. Her bed was neatly made and she was nowhere in sight. I backtracked but didn’t find her in the kitchen or the lounge. This meant she’d either left extremely early or – and surely this couldn’t be true – she’d not come home at all.
My ears were swirling with pressure as I returned to her bedroom and slipped a hand between her bedcovers. Cold! I examined the floor and shower of The Ensuite. Dry! There was only one explanation. Mum had spent the night with her fancy man. No, she’d probably spent two nights on the loose. I hadn’t seen her since Sunday.
I couldn’t believe it. I finally had the career break of my life and my mother was out painting the town red. What on earth was she thinking? Mothers weren’t supposed to stay out all night. Their job was to be home in times of need. Mum was being irresponsible. She’d probably start bringing her fancy man home next. My heart skipped a beat at the thought.
I took the jotter out of the kitchen drawer and with trembling hands wrote her a note using a thick red marker pen. Mum would see it on the table as soon as she walked in the door.
To Whom It May Concern,
I’ve got a new job potentially involving celebrity hair and possibly the small screen. I’ll be pretty busy from now on. So you might not be seeing a lot of me. I would’ve told you yesterday but you obviously didn’t come home. It’s a good thing we didn’t have a fire or plumbing emergency.
Your son
The Curl Up and Dye looked completely different in the bright light of morning: smaller and a lot shabbier. A rubbish tin outside the milk bar next door had overflowed and wrappers were collecting in the salon’s doorway. I pushed them away with my foot and stepped inside.
The bell tinkled and I felt a wave of carsickness. It was the pink of the place. The overhead fluorescent tubes gave the rose-coloured walls and furnishings an unnatural fleshy glow. I recognised the dense pastel pink of the vinyl chairs. It was the colour of the fibreglass elephant ride of the Ulverston sideshow. One summer, in a surprising show of generosity, my father had let me ride one of the elephants. I should’ve known something was up when he helped me saddle up. He’d started laughing as soon as the whirligig got going. His voice had boomed out over the crowd. ‘Look at little Princess Infanta on her baby pink elephanta!’ It was impossible to get off the moving elephant until the end of the ride and there was no way to avoid the laughter of the small crowd that gathered around my father. I never went near a mechanical animal or coin-operated ride again.
Pink was clearly Dot’s signature colour. She’d chosen it in varying shades for the floor, ceiling and cone hair-dryers on swing arms. Even the curlers in the utility trays were the colour of candyfloss. What was I thinking? The Curl Up was no fast track to celebrity hair. It was a suburban hairdressing salon for middle-aged women in floral frocks and cardigans. I was turning to leave when Dot walked through the back door. She was dressed in a simple pink smock with a gold chain around her neck and dangly earrings. Her hair was in curlers and she wasn’t wearing any make-up. Her eyes looked tiny without mascara but they still glittered like Easter currants.
‘Just having a fag out the back before my ladies arrive.’ Dot laid a warm hand between my shoulder blades and gently nudged me into the salon. ‘I’ll put my face on while we get you started.’
‘Dot…’
‘We’ll start you at the trough. Shampooing will give you a feel for the scalp.’
The warmth of her hand was impossible to resist. I was guided to the washing basins and given an introduction to hair-washing. Dot tied a scarf around her head and made herself up in the mirror as she gave directions. My first client was a bleached blonde with grey roots.
‘Go easy on the shampoo and heavy on the conditioner.’ Dot made massaging gestures with her hands. ‘Use your fingertips. The ladies love a good rub.’
Dot showed me how to towel off and then led the woman away to a cutting chair in front of the main window. I was on my own for the next client, a big freckly woman with a bush of springy red hair that filled the basin and required a thorough drenching before it would absorb water.
The morning passed quickly. I was too busy washing hair and talking to the women to think about my mother or even food. At midday Dot closed the door and led me through the laundry room to the backyard.
‘Welcome to the shrubbery.’
&nbs
p; She pointed to a plastic chair in a tiny but lush garden decorated with plaster animals and miniature wooden structures. The flowerbeds were planted out in bright annuals and small flowering bushes.
‘You’re a gardener, Dot.’
‘I like somewhere nice to sun myself and smoke my fags.’ She expertly tapped the bottom of her Pall Mall menthols. A cigarette popped up and was offered to me. ‘You like the job?’
I nodded. The menthol numbed my tongue and made my mouth tingle.
‘It’s a human vocation. You get to know the ladies very well.’ Dot took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘Did you notice Mary’s scalp?’
‘The nobbly one?’
Dot nodded solemnly. ‘You learn a lot from a scalp. It’s like the palm only more accurate. Old Mary’s got something wrong with her bowel. I’d put my money on cancer.’
‘Oh.’ Apart from a few bumps, Mary had seemed completely healthy. I resisted the urge to feel my own scalp.
‘I’d give the poor girl six months, max. You do what you can.’ Dot took another long drag and looked into the distance. ‘What say you get yourself a quick sandwich and I’ll cut that ginger business off your hair?’
I’d seen what Dot had done to her clients’ hair and didn’t want to look like Princess Anne. I took my time buying an egg sandwich and then attempted to eat it in slow motion. Dot watched me for a few minutes then whisked me over to the cutting chair.
‘I know what you’re thinking. You think I’ll bugger it up.’
‘It’s just that I have a specific idea in mind.’
‘Spit it out, love.’
‘Short on one side and longish on the other, with a fluffy bit that sticks up on top and falls forward over one eye.’
‘You want the Classic?’
I’d just described a Terrence Fig original. There was nothing classic about it.
‘Sit still, love.’
There was no resisting Dot. She ran her hands through my hair and frowned. ‘What kind of cut was this? It’s shorter on top.’
‘It’s called a horizontal plane.’
‘It’s called a hack job.’
‘Philippe’s an artiste.’
‘Load of rubbish.’
Dot took less than five minutes to remove the amber and transform my hair into the cut I’d just described. I was stunned. All this time I’d thought Terrence Fig was an original. Dot was fluffing the top with hairspray when I asked the obvious question.
‘Is my bowel normal?’
‘Clean as a whistle.’
‘That’s all right then.’
‘Now you can do something for me.’ Dot pulled me out of the chair and sat down in my place, removing the curlers from her hair with professional efficiency. ‘When you do your mum’s hair, what exactly do you do?’
‘I kind of fluff it and then I get it to stay in place with hairspray.’
‘Is the hair wet or dry?’
‘Dry.’
‘Just what I thought.’ Dot smiled, flashing two rows of very white dentures. Fluffing was clearly a good thing in her books. ‘Anyone can learn to cut hair but dry styling is a gift, something you’re born with.’
She handed me a comb and a can of hairspray before running a hand over the curled halo of tobacco-coloured hair.
‘Double the volume, up and out.’ She circled her hands over her head. ‘Remember, love, the secret to a good set is air. The volume and lift depend on how much air you can trap between the hairs. A good setter can defy gravity.’
I lifted one of the curls on Dot’s head and let it fall. It was typical Irish hair, thin and very fine. I combed a clump away from her head and gave the base a squirt of hairspray. The hair stiffened. Fluffing with my fingertips, I added more spray, working from the bottom up, willing the hair to open and absorb air.
‘Higher, Julian. Go higher!’ Dot caught my eye in the mirror and winked.
My fingers moved faster, channelling and trapping air into the maze of hair that was taking shape below me. I was building upward, teasing Dot’s hair to open outward like a Dutch tulip.
The doorbell tinkled. I looked over at the large woman in the doorway and heard air escape from the side of Dot’s hair like a punctured tyre. I grabbed the hairspray.
‘Focus! Stay with the hair!’
Dot’s words sent a jolt of electricity through me. The outside world blurred and emptied. I heard the door open and close but kept my eyes on her hair. I was an artiste, Michelangelo painting Adam’s thighs on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Something powerful was working through me, guiding my hands.
After what seemed like a week of fevered activity, I folded the top of the hair over to form a closed beehive and lifted away my hands. Dot’s hair had tripled in size. It was a glorious Tower of Babel, the most beautiful thing I’d ever created in my life.
‘Gawd almighty.’ A small puckered woman was standing behind us with her hand over her heart as if she was about to recite the national anthem. ‘Now that’s what I call a do. What do you call it?’
With a shock, I realised that a small group of women had gathered in the salon. They were looking at me solemnly, waiting for a response. I had no idea what to call my creation.
‘You did good, love.’ Dot nodded in the mirror. ‘Name it and claim it.’
My mind was blank.
‘A big name, love.’
The hairstyle did deserve a name, something powerful and possibly French. It was a creation worthy of Elizabeth Taylor and Maria Callas, the sort of hairstyle that went with diamond earrings and a nice necklace. I opened and closed my mouth. I opened it again and said something unexpected.
‘The Hog!’
‘All hail to the Hog!’
Dot made a Caesar salute and climbed off the chair. She told me to get back to the trough in a gruff voice but I could tell she was pleased. She was moving in a new, regal way with her head held stiffly.
I kept looking over at the Hog throughout the afternoon, marvelling at its beauty. Despite Dot’s constant movements, the hairdo never tilted or sagged. It remained solid and upright like a battlefield monument. I was towelling off the last client of the day when the doorbell tinkled. My hands froze and the towel fell forward over the face of the woman. She pushed it away with a muffled yelp.
There was no mistaking the floral frock and cardigan. Dolly was standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips glaring at me. When she spoke, her voice echoed across the salon and sent tremors along the arms of the cone dryers. She pushed the door shut with her bum and marched up to where I was standing behind the tub.
‘What in God’s name do you think you are doing?’
‘I’m towelling off a customer.’
‘Ridiculous!’
‘I’m an apprentice.’
‘Load of old cobblers.’
‘It’s a trade.’
‘Hair care is not a trade for a man.’
‘Vidal Sassoon’s a man.’
‘Foreigners don’t count.’ Dolly huffed in a self-righteous way and adjusted the cardigan over her bosom. ‘I suppose your mother’s put you up to this.’
‘She’s happy I’ve got a job.’ I’d deal with Mum later. The present crisis called for a united front.
‘That’d be right.’
‘How’s Uncle Ted’s job?’ I’d never dared mention Dolly’s husband and employment in the same breath before. Mum said he was the dole office’s best customer.
‘Ted’s affairs are no concern of yours.’
‘And my affairs are no concern of Ted’s…or yours for that matter.’
I flicked the towel like a matador’s cape and placed it over the shoulders of my client. The small grey-haired woman stood and addressed Dolly.
‘This young man’s doing a wonderful job. He gives a lovely scalp massage. I feel like the Aga Khan.’
‘Dolly!’ Dot grasped my aunt’s elbow and swung her away from the basin. ‘Wash and set?’
‘Just a set this time, thank you.’ Dolly sho
t me a frosty look over her shoulder. ‘I trust no one except you with my hair.’
‘Of course, love. We’ll get you gussied up in no time.’
Dot pointed to the basket of wet towels and told me to clean the tools and put the washing on out the back. ‘Take your time, love, while I finish up here.’
I was putting towels into the dryer when she appeared with a packet of cigarettes and led me out to the garden.
‘There’s nothing like a good smoke after a day’s hard yakka.’
I had to agree. I was developing quite a taste for menthol.
‘Poor old Dolly.’ Dot inhaled deeply and held the smoke in her lungs, letting it out slowly in a satisfied way. ‘There’s a worry spot the size of a Tickworth beer coaster on the crown of her head. It’s so bald I could see myself in the reflection.’
I didn’t feel sorry for Dolly. She deserved a bald spot the size of County Cork.
‘She’s had a lot of disappointment with that daughter of hers.’
‘Sharon?’
‘Expelled from school. Got a bit too big for her boots after that competition.’ Dot stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Of course, Ted’s always been a ladies’ man.’
Ted, a ladies’ man? My uncle had a small head, big ears, bulbous nose and small lipless mouth. After my father, he was probably the most unattractive man in Tasmania.
‘Hairdressing’s a bit like social work, love. The ladies come in here worse for wear and our job is to make them feel beautiful. When we make a lady feel good about herself, she goes out and makes other people happy.’ Dot patted the side of the Hog. ‘I know what I’m talking about.’
The house was empty and the note was still on the table when I got home. I thought of Dot and tore it up, stuffing the pieces into the bottom of the rubbish bin. Julian Corkle was a bigger, better person. Feelings of charity and forgiveness bloomed inside me as I bypassed the cake tin to take an apple from the fruit bowl. I took it into the lounge where I resisted the urge to change the channel when a documentary about India came on the screen. A small raisin-like nun was walking through a slum talking about poverty. The camera followed her into an orphanage where she described the misery of abandoned children. The orphans ran up to her, calling her mother. I was wiping tears out of my eyes when the fly screen creaked.
Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar Page 25
