Chapter 8
It’s hair day today. Hair today and gone tomorrow, as Eustace, my hair designer, chattily informs me. I get the impression he says that to pretty much every customer, every day. Which is fine for us, of course, but may well account for some of the more scathing glances he seems to attract from the cluster of spotty teenagers that are scattered around the salon manning brooms and towel bales and who are the hair designers of the future. I know they are this, incidentally, because while I was waiting I heard the receptionist telling a caller that if she would like to book an appointment with one of the Style Shack’s hair designers of the future, she would not only get her hair done for free (bar conditioner) but also get her photograph taken, to be inserted in the loose leaf file of attractive styles that even hair designers of the future can manage.
I must confess to a moment of negativity here. Rhiannon has exactly the kind of skinflint cum extreme vanity personality combo to have indulged in a spot of coiffing styled by hair designers of the future. She has also always striven to be considered hip and hip types never plump for anything so crassly middle class as having your hair done by a capable suburban hairdresser with a Nissan. Even if he is gay. I have flicked, therefore, through the mug shots. She is, alas, not there.
‘What’s it to be, then?’ Quips Eustace merrily. His hands are having sex with my hair as we speak, his long chocolate fingers darting playfully around and pummelling bits of my cranium.
I answer, pathetically (how many years since women’s suffrage?), ‘I don’t really know’ and ‘what do you think might suit me?’
‘Well, I think we need to lose this bob, my lovely. And chop into the nape.’ He ducks to inspect it. ‘And, hmm, we need height. We need height, we need volume. And colour. We need colour. We need…’
‘We need something not too expensive,’ I squeak. And, ‘oh, and I don’t want highlights anymore.’
Once we’ve established that there is no such thing as highlights any more anyway, simply woven colour fusions tailored to the client’s individual tonal profile (well, they still come out looking like highlights to me) Eustace tells me, in the manner of a hair designer very much of the present, that I’m to leave it to him and he’ll simply wow me. Then I’m shuffled off by a pubescent called Cerys and subjected to ten minutes of vigorous shampooing at the sort of sink I have seen featured on Watchdog. The woman concerned suffered nerve compression (or something) of the neck, which resulted in her having some sort of stroke and then total, permanent paralysis from the neck down. No wonder I’m sweating.
By the time Eustace fetches up again however, I have suffered nothing more life threatening than total migration of the mascara to the ears. I look like a cartoon of someone who has been riding on the back of a motorbike at one hundred miles per hour. I ask you – who needs life-threatening? Isn’t life unfair enough?
*
Yes, yes, yes and yes! I LOVE my hair! I can’t walk in a straight line for trying to see myself in shop windows. I want to hug it, comb it, brush it, rub my hands on it, run my hands through it, wash it, dry it, then look at it some more. And you know what? It makes me like my face more too. And my neck, and my boobs and my stomach and my legs – oh, well, maybe not my legs – but pretty much everything else about myself. I feel totally, utterly rejuvenated. The second thing I do when I get home (post the half hour in the mirror, deciding that 34B is actually just great and that my legs are not so much short and fat as average length and muscular and that my eyes are not sludge but khaki and that having shoulders like a squaddie are really sexy and that it doesn’t matter if there’s a kink in my nose because when I smile – and am I smiling! – it miraculously disappears) is go to the phone in my bedroom (which is by the mirror) and telephone my Mum to tell her about my hair. My Mum is particularly good at being prattled at. No one else I know would tolerate it.
‘Guess what?’
‘What, dear?’
‘I’ve had all my hair cut off and it looks absolutely brilliant. I can’t imagine why I didn’t do this years ago (I can’t help but imagine that perhaps Richard wouldn’t have had sex with Rhiannon De Laney if I’d done this years ago – but that’s so silly). And I’ve had it coloured, a sort of coppery goldy colour with sort of blondy tips, and sort of spiked up at the top and it’s all fluffy and tendrilly on my neck – but like, bristly, you know? And it looks so…so, well…I know! Sort of like Meg Ryan’s but a bit more, sort of…well, funky.’
‘Meg Ryan. Wasn’t she that drunk woman? Or was she a doctor? What was it I’ve seen her in?’
‘Oh, both, I think. But she’d better watch out if she comes to Cardiff. Julia Potter is on the scene now. Oh, I just can’t tell you how pleased I am with it. Isn’t it funny how your hair can change the whole shape of your face?’
‘It is, dear. And I’m very pleased. It’s nice to hear you sounding so jolly. Does Richard like it?’
‘Mum! We’re separated! I don’t care what Richard thinks about it.’ Of course I do. Or do I? Of course I do.
‘Of course you do. Anyway, you like it and that’s the main thing, isn’t it?’
It isn’t the main thing at all, of course.
The main thing, as everyone will tell you, is that everyone else likes it. And that Richard, particularly, likes it very, very much.
What a sad, sad woman I am. I know Richard doesn’t even care about hair. So it wouldn’t matter to him how I did my hair even if we were still together. And I know that, given that it was I who dumped him, there is no necessity for him to even have an opinion. But, God, I hope he likes it.
I’m not brave enough to let him see it when he comes to pick up Max and Emma (they are off to his flat for tea) so I say my goodbyes from the downstairs loo. Since then, though, I am becoming steadily more excited at the prospect of presenting myself, siren-like, on the doorstep; an item of almost unbearable sexual magnetism which he can no longer have.
But he catches me out by coming in through the back door when he brings them home again. I have my dressing gown on and my hand in the Pringles.
His eyebrows beetle alarmingly as he scans me. Then he finally speaks.
‘Good God,’ he says.
Max sniggers. Max, how could you?
‘See?’ he says, pointing (who’d have a son?). ‘Ha, ha, ha. What did I tell you? She looks just like a pineapple, doesn’t she?’
Three days later, a parcel arrives in the post.
My mother has sent me a small, misshapen something – the latest fruit, no doubt, of her creative muse. (My mother thinks she is the doyen of the Croydon Seniors Pottery Workshop, despite being, to my admittedly untutored eye, absolutely non-talented in three dimensional art. As a body, however, they are in receipt of a sizeable chunk of council funding and must therefore, I suppose, admit all-comers, or else. And I must be grateful – if ousted she may well turn her attention to dried floral arrangements. Which really doesn’t bear thinking about.)
There is a note. It says;
Just a little something for your used tea bags. And don’t worry about your hair. I’m sure Richard will come to love it. And remember – hair grows.
One of us is in denial here.
But it isn’t me.
One of the most liberating things about not having a Husband in residence is that it obviates the need to consult someone less artistic and enlightened than oneself concerning matters of taste. For the first time since blu-tacking every male under twenty to my room in a hall of residence, I am going to have free rein in colour scheming and soft furnishings. That I have no money is almost entirely irrelevant. Everyone knows that it’s possible to completely transform your environment with little more than a couple of cans of inexpensive emulsion and some remnants of fabric (I have an old net curtain that I can dip-dye). Most important tool though is a skinny rib T-shirt in which to encourage builders merchants to hack appropriately sized hunks from fashionable stone and hard landscaping type items, which apparently never cost more
than fifty pence.
The watch word with living space, as with one’s person, is attention to detail, and careful accessorising.
Accessories (Lifestyle) I now need
Gerbera daisies (real/silk – depending on season)
Test tubes (plus rack)
Terracotta Pots/Urns
A Smoothie maker
A Vauxhall Corsa*
*Query replace by eco-friendly Prius.
Of course, there’s always a touch of insecurity about accessories, especially if you pick up most of your tips from the pile of magazines in the Time Of Your Life Photo Studio waiting area. At least two of them have pre-decimalisation cover prices. I really must make a committed effort to making my lifestyle a bit more now. Though I will not, naturally, start putting flan dishes of pebbles on my coffee table, or assorted novelty bottles filled with coloured water on my kitchen windowsill, like she does.
Richard hasn’t the smallest idea about lifestyle as an expression of personal taste, which I presume is why he felt it necessary to pour scorn on my most recent accessorising when he came to pick up Max and take him swimming earlier. And once again, Max didn’t help. Unlike Emma he has no sense of solidarity, and prefers to join with his father in what they clearly both consider to be completely harmless sniping.
‘What’s this?’ Richard said, holding up my newest acquisition.
‘It’s curly willow’ I said. ‘With integral fairy lights. In a burnished terracotta urn.’
‘Yes, I can see that. I just wondered what its purpose was on the telephone table. Does it have a smell or something?’
‘No.’
‘Does it play a tune when the phone rings?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then what’s the point of it?’
‘It’s decorative.’
‘It’s looks like one of your mother’s Dali flowerpot creations with some dead stalks stuck in it, to me. Har, har, har.’
Max; ‘Har, har, har. If you think that’s gross, you should see what Mum’s put in the downstairs loo. Wait there!’
Oh, his sides were splitting, I can tell you.
‘Ta ra!’
‘What’s that?’
‘Dad, can’t you see? It’s a ‘decorative wreath’, of course. It has bits of orange, and shrivelled up chillies – see? – and, get this. Twigs. In little bunches. Oh and this is string, isn’t it, Mum?’
‘Ha, ha, very funny. You’re both such wags, aren’t you? For your information, smarty-pants that you both are, these were made by Emma, in her art class at school. I happen to think she shows a great deal of creativity. And I also happen to think it is very important to let our children know that we are both impressed by and proud of their artistic achievements, don’t you, Richard?’
Hah! All utter rot, of course, but I know I can rely on Emma not to split on me.
(In actual fact, I have had to put my curly willow pot and wreath in the SCOPE bag that came this morning, because I read in Homescene yesterday that rustic is definitely out, and that galvanised metal and industrial flooring are both very much of the moment. Except in bedrooms, where turquoise and terracotta with flashes of copper are still acceptable – which is good because I just got the emulsion.)
But they are both treading a rocky road; Max, because I have absolute control over hours allotted to the new Playstation PSP his father has just bought him and Richard himself because if he persists in his current line of merry banter on these occasions (which, yes, I do understand are very healthy and psychologically enriching for all concerned) I will have no choice but to deposit the children at the front garden gate whilst scowling aggressively in an arms folded and legs slightly apart manner on the doorstep. Also I will start referring to him as ‘your father’ instead of Dad, and ring him frequently with requests for Nike AirMax trainers and Calvin Klein Puffa Body Warmers. We will soon see who’s taking the piss then.
Chapter 9
Dinner parties. Who’d have then?
It’s currently trendy round our way to eschew the dinner party. Dinner parties appear to be no longer fashionable, and have been supplanted by;
Having a few close friends for supper (dinner party)
Having two close friends and their children over for Sunday Lunch (dinner party at lunchtime, plus chicken nuggets plus hangover during Antiques Roadshow)
Having a How to Host a Murder party (dinner party plus dressing up and farting around)
Entertaining business colleagues (dinner party where women do not know each other and always have to drive home)
Having a few close friends around after the pub shuts and phoning the Chinese take away for an Indian – or vice versa – and everyone falling asleep before it arrives. (Dinner party at our house)
Actually, I’m rather a good cook. When Richard and I were first married, we assembled forty seven jars of herbs and spices, which I kept in almost fanatical alphabetical order along the back of the kitchen worktop. The saffron, in those days, was forty four pence. I still have the whole jar of fenugreek.
And I used to love doing dinner parties. There is surely a time in everyone’s life when a Saturday afternoon wouldn’t be complete without a visit to a kitchen shop to buy gadgets and trivets and little paper chefs hats to put on racks of lamb. And I had the entire Robert Carrier collection and all the binders.
But that was then. I can’t be fagged any more. Now I get stressed just thinking about them. Even thinking about going to other people’s dinner parties. Especially if they’ve mentioned that they may flambé or something.
Which puts me on a completely different planet to Moira Bugle. Which I was anyway, of course, as I am thirty eight trying to get away with thirty and she is about one hundred and two. And she is Moira Bugle. Which means she does as she damn well likes.
In the end I chose to attend Moira Bugle’s soiree in one of those dresses that look a bit like underwear and have two layers; mine was sort of silvery underneath and sort of mauvy and lacy on top – very Madonna, very now. And I wore mauve strappy sandals (which Emma and I found in the most trendy shoe shop in Cardiff, which was uplifting) and one of those little beaded drawstring bags. Emma said,
‘You could go clubbing in that and no one would have a clue how old you are – if it wasn’t for that big varicose vein up the back of your knee, you could be twenty five, easily.’
Brilliant.
I had a great big fat repulsive throbbing pulsating vein up the back of my leg. Arrrrrgh! How could I ever go swimming again?
And I had completely forgotten about it. Really. I had completely forgotten it’s existence. I almost rang Richard then and there.
‘That’s it,’ I would have said. ‘That’s the real reason I don’t want you back. It’s because you care so little for me that you didn’t even see fit to mention the big throbbing vein on the back of my leg. Rat!’. I mean, I could have had it injected, or lanced, or whatever they do to them years ago. At least used concealer stick on it, or something. Which is what I eventually did. And popped it into my little mauve bag.
So off I went. I took a bottle of mid-priced eastern European white wine (trendy, or what?), a large bunch of freesias (all the same colour – class) and a box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates which I won in a prize draw (Fortunately, Moira has no nose for clichés) and stood on her doorstep for a good half minute while she made the journey from kitchen to hall.
Moira and Derek are not only older, but also quite a bit richer than us. Me. They have a mock Georgian house on the edge of the village that has a square footage that probably matches it. I was ushered vociferously into the lounge and presented by Moira (in shimmering eau de nil palazzo pants) to the already assembled throng. These were;
Moira’s Derek – fifty-ish, something in local government, half cut.
Caitlin and Stuart Goodrich – almost fifty-ish, both very nice. She makes embroidered cards. Stuart has some sort of business. Is Richard’s big pal at the ten
nis club – oof!
Dawn and Boris Griffiths – Early forties (getting nearer) but big on beige. She local playgroup leader, sweet. He entirely unknown quantity but looks like sort who might grope bottoms.
And me. Which made seven in all. Seven? Moira? Surely not. Of course not. Bing Bong! went the door.
And then Howard Ringrose walked in. He of the biceps and hamstrings and suchlike. Toyboy and hunk and God Of Year Six. He? How? He? Moira? How on earth? Why?
Someone must have seen me ogling him in the playground. Or noticed a sheen of sweat on my upper lip while he ran through the fixture list for the summer term. Or must have noticed that the little artery that crosses my clavicle was pulsating ever so slightly as I said ‘Hmm, that’s what you call not really muddy, is it, Max?’ in jocular fashion by the changing room door. Or, or, or….and told Moira. Eeek!
‘Well,’ said Moira chirpily, ‘that seems to be all of us. Howard, I’m so glad you managed to join us. It seems Joan was quite adamant that you tear yourself away. Howard’s mother,’ she told us, ‘has been rather poorly. But she didn’t want Howard here missing the fun. What with SATs and all that. And I’ll bet it’s the only decent hot meal you’ll be getting all weekend, is it not? Well! Drinkies, you two?’
I thought she was going to suffix the ‘two’ with ‘youngsters’, about which I would have had rather mixed feelings, but she went straight on to explain why she had invited a late-twenty something, cool person to a gathering of women on the very brink of hormonal dysfunction and men with hair hanging out of their noses. As you would. (I assumed my own presence had been explained earlier. And if not, why not? I was still fully fecund, even if the route to creation did have a ‘road closed’ sign across it.)
Joan, it turns out, is Howard’s mother, and is also a friend of Moira’s (Moira knows everyone old within a ten mile radius). Apparently, she now lives in Bristol – which is where Howard comes from, and it was Moira who told her about the vacancy at the primary school in the first place etc. etc. Who would have thought it?
‘Anyway, nice to see you,’ said Howard..
Julia Gets a Life Page 5
