It's Not All About YOU, Calma!

by Barry Jonsberg

  As it turned out, I wish I’d stayed with Vanessa and watched the rest of the soap opera.

  Chapter 10

  Just your average hairdo

  I don’t know how you are positioned on the feminist spectrum, but let me present you with a scenario. You are thinking of going to the hairdresser’s to prepare for a date. Part of you is disturbed by this. You examine your motives and see if they stand up to rational scrutiny. Which of the following do you most identify with?

  a) Going on a date should not compromise your standards. Trying to impress a guy with good grooming is a sad indictment of your insecurity. It is better to turn up exactly as you are, warts and all, and if he is not impressed, then he is a shallow individual not worthy of your attention in the first place.

  b) It is entirely understandable to want to make an impression. If a trip to the local dump is normally preceded by ensuring you are clean and tidy, then a social engagement would obviously justify greater effort. This would include paying attention to hair, make-up and outfit. Not to do so would be artificial. What’s the alternative? Not showering, and dressing in soiled shorts and ripped T-shirt with bird’s nest hair?

  c) You might as well go the whole hog – hairdo, manicure, pedicure, liposuction, Botox implants, facelift, nose job, new outfit from Versace and sufficient make-up to render a dry stone wall. Then leave half your brain cells at home and simply giggle and clutch the guy’s arm from time to time.

  It seemed to me that option b) was the mature and considered choice. So on Wednesday afternoon, before I went to work, I looked up hairdressers in the Yellow Pages.

  I decided I wouldn’t go to my usual place. Don’t get me wrong. It was a fine establishment and Cheryl, my hairdresser, was competent at lopping off split ends while engaging in uninspiring conversation about the weather. I just felt she was more of an artisan than an artist.

  I also didn’t want to go to places that used puns in their business name. You know, things like ‘The Final Cut’ or ‘Hair Today’. Don’t ask me why. Oh, go on. Ask me why. They bloody annoy me, that’s why. I refuse to hand over money to someone who thinks a weak pun is a brilliant marketing ploy. And as for anything with a ‘z’ in it – Cutz, Endz – well, I wouldn’t advocate fire-bombing under any circumstances, but I understand how someone might feel it was the only solution.

  In the end I decided to give ‘Allessandro’s’ a go. It sounded chic, which probably meant it was run by a guy called Bazza from Wagga Wagga whose closest link to Italy was a passion for Domino’s Meatosaurus pizza. I rang for an appointment. It sounded expensive. You can tell these things from the receptionist’s tone of voice. The trouble is, you can’t ask about price on the phone, can you? I’m not sure why. It’s an immutable law, like gravity, or something.

  After I left Vanessa’s house, I took a bus straight to the CBD. Allessandro’s was in the mall, next to fashion outlets that charged three hundred bucks for a miniskirt. Allessandro’s was impressive. Black marble, a tasteful sign, spot lighting, no price list in the window. I felt inadequate just entering the place. For one thing, I was in my school clothes – not exactly a uniform, you understand, but not a million miles from it – and my school bag was slung over my shoulder.

  The receptionist gave me the once-over and didn’t appear impressed. Maybe I should have left then. I can’t stand people who think they’re doing you a favour by accepting your custom. The receptionist was stick-thin, dressed in black and sporting a hairdo that stuck out at crazy angles. Undoubtedly it was the height of fashion, but I couldn’t rid myself of the notion that the same effect might be achieved by standing in a pool of water and sticking a finger in a light socket. I fronted up to the counter and gave my name. She scanned the appointment book and seemed disappointed to find I had indeed booked. Possibly she was looking forward to hurling me through the plate-glass window and onto the street if I’d arrived without an appointment. I got the feeling Allessandro’s was the sort of place that felt it was going downmarket if the customers weren’t judges, lawyers, doctors or spenders of obscene amounts of money.

  ‘What would you like done?’ she said, studying my hair. I can’t be sure, but I think I detected a lip curling fractionally.

  I’m fine in most social situations. I can talk intelligently to people. But hairdressers intimidate me. I suddenly find myself nervous and tongue-tied, as if I am not qualified to talk about my own hair.

  ‘Well, I don’t know, really,’ I said, not making the most confident start to the consultation. ‘A trim, I suppose. Get rid of the split ends and style it. Whatever you think.’

  I hated myself as soon as I made that last remark. The receptionist was looking contemptuous as I babbled on. I felt like I had gone into a fancy restaurant and asked for a meat pie, chips and bucket-loads of tomato sauce.

  She examined my hair more closely.

  ‘We might be able to do something,’ she said, grudgingly, as if I’d asked her to weave a Persian carpet out of the fluff that gets stuck in the filters of tumble dryers. ‘Follow me, please.’

  I put my bag down and went through into the salon itself. It was plush, I must say. There were Aboriginal paintings on the walls, the lighting was discreet and there was more stainless steel gadgetry dotted about than you’d find in an average operating theatre. I started to really worry about cost. If push came to shove I suppose I could have offered to sweep up hair to pay the bill, but I suspected I would have to accumulate enough to occupy a landfill site. I decided to worry about it later.

  It was great at first. I had to put my glasses down on a counter, which meant the Aboriginal art became decidedly more abstract, at least from my perspective. Then I leaned back in a soft leather chair and an apprentice washed my hair and massaged my scalp. There’s nothing like having someone else washing your hair. It takes you back to your childhood, when your mum used to lather your head into a frenzy. All I needed was a rubber duck to play with afterwards and I would have been a happy girl.

  When she had made my hair squeaky, I was led back to a seat in front of a mirror and the hairdresser combed my hair, occasionally lifting a portion off to the side for reasons best known to herself. Certainly she didn’t keep me informed of her progress. She hadn’t even told me her name, which I thought was rude. I mean, it’s an intimate thing, having your locks fondled by a complete stranger. I wasn’t keen to bond with her, you understand, but it would have been nice to know who it was that held my self-image in the palm of her hand. I couldn’t see what she was doing. Without my glasses I have the visual acuity of a fruit bat. But there was plenty of prodding going on. I gazed impassively at the blurred reflection in the mirror. Finally, she spoke.

  ‘Who usually does your hair?’ she said.

  I told her and she grunted. I got the distinct impression she looked upon Cheryl in much the same way a brain surgeon would look upon a faith healer. If Cheryl had been there I suspect she would have been the object of withering scorn at best. At worst, she might have been attacked with a stainless steel hair dryer.

  ‘Well,’ she continued. ‘Your hair is a challenge. It’s in appalling condition and the amateurish cuts you’ve had in the past mean there are limits to what I can do. I think it would be best if we started from scratch. I suggest we take a fair amount off the length . . . to about here.’ She was showing me in the mirror, but I got only the haziest notion of what she meant. ‘Then I can style it, so it follows the curve of your cheekbones. Like this.’ Again I squinted and again came up blank. ‘Does that sound all right?’

  Now, tell me. What should you say under these circumstances? I mean, I know I hadn’t been insulted personally, but it’s difficult to keep your composure when someone is implying your hair is beneath contempt. ‘Kindly take your hands off my head before I insert this bottle of conditioner up your nostrils,’ was the first response to flash through my mind.

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  I don’t know if this has happened to you. If it hasn’t, you’ll have t
o trust me. There is a defining moment in a hairdresser’s when you know, absolutely and unequivocally, that a disaster is occurring. It comes with the first snip of scissors just below your left ear and the sense of hair falling. Lots of hair. Hair that can never be returned. Hair today, gone forever.

  The worst part is that you know a scream of ‘Stop!’ is going to achieve nothing, except possibly a coronary for your hairdresser. I wouldn’t have minded so much, but there was always a chance the shock might result in her plunging the hairdressing scissors into my eardrum. I would have preferred that, as it turned out.

  I went rigid with terror. Sweat glistened on my forehead. The spawn-of-Satan hairdresser carried on blithely snipping, huge swathes of hair flying around manically. My head was getting lighter, literally and metaphorically. In the end I shut my eyes. I resisted the urge to stick my thumb in my mouth and start sucking, but it was difficult.

  The rest of the procedure was a blur. The snipping and slicing seemed to go on forever. Then there was a vigorous massage of the scalp with something greasy and a finale with a hair dryer and comb. Eventually, she declared she was done. I stood up and put on my glasses.

  It’s not often I’ve nearly lost control of my bladder, but this was touch-and-go. I looked in the mirror and Gollum in a toupee looked back. We regarded each other suspiciously for a moment before I was led to reception and presented with a bill for one hundred and ten dollars. Under other circumstances, I would have laughed derisively and told them I didn’t want to put in an offer for the freehold, just pay for a hairdo. This time I handed over my EFTPOS card meekly. The small part of my brain still functioning noted, in a calm and distant fashion, that this completely wiped out my funds. I clutched a receipt, gathered up my bag and went out into the mall.

  I stood for a moment, hoping to see a bus I could throw myself under. Unfortunately, it was a mall. Maybe I could throw myself under a crowd of fast-moving pedestrians. Maybe a group exiting from the local Weight Watchers association.

  Then, at my bleakest moment, I saw it. The solution. The only solution. The final solution.

  I hurried across before the stall closed. I was the last customer. Ten minutes later, it was done. The Leukaemia Foundation gave me a bandanna, which was a blessing, and heartfelt congratulations for doing my bit for those less fortunate than myself. I told them I’d get money from my sponsors as soon as I could and drop the cash round to their main office.

  I examined myself in a shop window. Even though you could stick two fingers up my nose and use me for a bowling ball, it was an improvement. I tied the bandanna around my completely shaved head and headed for the bus stop.

  Chapter 11

  A reflection on the positives in

  life, after mature consideration

  Chapter 12

  Just your average date, part one

  Here’s another poser.

  You have secured a date with a young man who makes Orlando Bloom look like John Howard’s uglier brother. Unfortunately, a deranged hairdresser has viciously attacked your head, lopping off hair with reckless abandon, necessitating a drastic solution that has left you doing an uncanny impersonation of a potato. You put on your glasses and look in a mirror. Ears stick out of a shiny globe, like handles on a hard-boiled egg. If you went out on a sunny day, you’d dazzle the pilots of passing aircraft, precipitating a major catastrophe. What are you going to do?

  Do you cancel the date, making up a suitable excuse such as having to rub ointment into your cat’s haemorrhoids, or go ahead and hope he doesn’t mind being seen in public with a bespectacled skinhead?

  I tried other options. I went into The Fridge’s wardrobe while she was out and found a blonde wig. I had no idea why she owned one. Possibly it was a remnant from some ghastly fancy-dress party. You couldn’t describe it as a top-of-the-range hirsute accessory. It had the consistency of freeze-dried straw and contained enough static electricity to run a small domestic appliance. Nonetheless, when you are desperate, you’ll give anything a go. I put it on.

  I looked like Goldilocks with breast implants.

  I decided to ring Jason and call the whole thing off. I mean, what choice did I have? Maybe I could rearrange it for three months’ time, when I’d look as if I was at least a candidate for the human race. I could claim I was planning to wash my scalp for the foreseeable future. I’d even rung the number – my finger was poised over the last digit – when I thought again.

  If I gave him the elbow now, there was no chance of reclaiming the situation. There were probably dozens of girls waiting in the wings to snap him up. Girls with washboard stomachs, master’s degrees in soccer administration, tiny halter tops and long flowing hair that shimmered sexily as they walked. No. Jason was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

  I replaced the handset.

  So what if I had a head like an inflated marble? There’s more to attractiveness than the physical. I had a personality. I could be warm, charming, witty. Why should I prejudge Jason, compartmentalise him as a shallow chauvinist, when all the time he could be searching for an intelligent soulmate? For all I knew he was a closet Buddhist. To hell with it. I’d go. I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t.

  I felt better once I’d made the decision, so I locked myself in my bedroom and cried for two hours.

  I was buggered if I was going to school, though.

  Thursday evening wasn’t too bad. I stayed in, watching Discovery while simultaneously trying to decipher the arcane mysteries of probability theory. As far as I understood it, the probability of waking up the next morning with a full head of hair was zero, while the probability of Jason dropping me like a handful of warm diarrhoea was approaching one. While these amusing notions passed through my head, I kept one eye on the driveway. If the Fridge turned up, I could be in my bedroom before her key hit the front door. I needn’t have worried. Once more, the Fridge was missing in action. By the time I hit the sack at eleven o’clock, she still wasn’t home.

  Despite the emotionally draining day and concerns that my head would slide off the pillow during the night and concuss me against a bedpost, I slept surprisingly well. I woke refreshed. For a moment or two, I had difficulty believing my recollections of the previous day and had to check myself out in the mirror. The early morning light glinted off my pate and made intricate patterns on the ceiling. The birds stopped singing. I had the cranial characteristics of a Tibetan monk.

  I wrapped my head in a towel [at least I was still thinking rationally and strategically] and slipped downstairs into the kitchen. The Fridge was home – the car was parked in the driveway – but there was no sign of her. Probably still sleeping. I made toast and thought about rubbing Vegemite on my scalp, but decided against it. It probably wouldn’t do anything and I’d spend the day with a cloud of flies buzzing around my head. Or, worse, stuck to it.

  Keeping my voice quiet, I rang school and told them I wouldn’t be in on account of a severe inflammation of the clack picked up at work. Then I pinned a note to The Fridge on the fridge, telling her I wasn’t feeling crash-hot and needed to catch up on sleep. I padded back up the stairs and into my bedroom, where the day stretched out interminably before me. At least I’d have time to plan what I was going to wear.

  I was surprised to discover my resolution to go ahead with the date hadn’t diminished overnight. If anything, all remaining doubts had vanished. If Jason was the kind of guy to be put off by someone who’d shaved her head for charity, then he could shove his impeccably fine features where the sun don’t shine. This would be a test. A test of his inner beauty. What did I have to lose?

  This line of thought cheered me immensely and I turned my mind to matters of apparel. One thing was clear. I couldn’t wear any of my glasses. I tried them all, believe me. But it was impossible.

  The kind of glasses I like are bold. Well, not so much bold as downright arrogant. And they wouldn’t work. Stick a brightly coloured pair of specs on an albino rockmelon, if you don’t believe me. So this left one
option. A few years previously, I had tried contact lenses. I don’t know why. I think I was going through a self-conscious stage, before I discovered that the best way of overcoming embarrassment at wearing glasses was to make them a feature. A sort of in-your-face, stuff-you-if-you-don’t-like-’em, I-couldn’t-give-a-rat’s approach.

  Actually, this discovery was prompted by the physical pain involved with contact lenses. Getting the buggers in was torture. It was like sticking thumb tacks into your eyeballs. And when they were in, it was as if half a broken beer bottle was lodged there. Every time I blinked I felt like confessing to crimes I hadn’t committed or giving up classified information about allied troop movements.

  I still had the contact lenses and the expensive gunk they came in. It was time to give them another go. It’s surprising how quickly time flies when you are trying to find minute slivers of plastic lens on shag-pile carpet. You see, I sorted out the preliminaries. I perched in front of the mirror, one lens balanced delicately on an index finger, the fingers of the other hand prising my left eyelid open, tongue sticking out the corner of my mouth in concentration. Then it was simply a case of bringing the lens onto the surface of the eyeball in one smooth, decisive action. Unfortunately, due to the reflex action that in prehistoric times was invaluable in preserving my forebears’ eyesight, I would blink at the critical moment, spinning the lens off to a corner of the bedroom where it would disappear into the carpet. Then I’d spend half an hour finding the bloody thing, cleaning it and going through the whole process again.

  I spent the entire morning doing this before I managed to get both lenses in. Feeling proud, I stood in front of the mirror and examined the results. True, I couldn’t see much because my eyes were streaming with tears, but it didn’t seem too bad. Puffy around the eyes, I admit. Like I’d gone four rounds with a crazed pugilist, but I thought the swelling would probably subside by the time I met Jason.