by Anne Brooke
“What’s wrong?” his startled eyes give her the once over where she leans over the sink with the shower head. “Have you hurt yourself?”
“Nooo,” Olivia wails. “I’m fine. But my hair feels really odd. Can you see anything?”
She dabs at her head with the towel, feeling a slight and very worrying crackle under her fingers, and then swings round so her back is towards him. She feels him move closer and presumably give her hair a careful examination. He shuffles his feet once or twice.
“Um, well, I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Your hair looks fine to me, but then again I’m a bloke so I don’t know anything about this stuff. What do you think is odd about it?”
Olivia shakes her head. “It feels dry, brittle. I’m worried about the perm lotion. Do you think Bernie left it in too long?”
“Honestly, I’ve no idea, but you and your hair always look lovely. Why don’t you dry it off and see how you go?”
Olivia nods. It’s as good a suggestion as any. Back in the bedroom she sets the hairdryer onto the lowest heat possible and puts on the diffuser. Then she sits on the bed and spends the next ten minutes or so with the dryer as far away from her hair as she can get it whilst still being able to do its job. Thank goodness she comes from a long-armed family! When she’s done she clips back her hair and glances in the mirror.
What she sees makes her scream. Twice. Then she runs her fingers carefully through the finished hairdo and screams again.
By this time, Kieran is in the bedroom alongside her, so she stops screaming. He isn’t a great fan of loud noises and tends to disappear for hours on end if he thinks there may be too many emotions swirling round in the vicinity.
“It’s my hair,” she says, though it must be obvious even to a man. “Look at what Bernie has done to it!”
Both of them gaze in the mirror, and Olivia gulps. Kieran may have gulped too but she can’t be sure because she can only focus on the nightmare vision before them. Her hair looks as if it’s been pushed through a corkscrew-shaped hole and then blasted with sand. It hangs around her face in thin, tightly-curled strands and each time she moves, Olivia can hear it rustle. This is NOT the soft flattering curls she wants and which THAT WOMAN (she can’t bring herself to say the hairdresser’s name) promised her.
When she puts up her hand to feel the back of her hair, it’s even worse there – scrunchier and maybe even more lanky if she could see it properly. Maybe it’s best she can’t. What on earth is she going to do?
“I can’t get married like this,” she whispers. “It’s awful.”
Kieran puts his arm around her and gives her a hug. “But I love you the way you are. I want to marry you. You and your hair.”
His generosity brings tears to Olivia’s eyes. “Oh, hon, I’m sorry. Of course I want to get married. I love you too. But if I can’t get this sorted, I’ll have to wear a bag over my hair.”
“In that case, I’ll marry you, your hair and the bag, and it will be the best day in our lives ever, I promise you. But if you’re really that worried about it, why don’t you go and see another hairdresser? There are loads of them in town. Perhaps they can help you with it?”
Olivia is about to open her mouth to protest that no, her hair is utterly ruined beyond redemption and there is absolutely nothing she can do about it, when she realises that actually it’s quite a decent idea. So she gives Kieran a trembly smile and a kiss.
“You know, sometimes you’re a total genius.”
“Always.” he replies.
Olivia hopes this is true when, one week later, she opens the door of the poshest hair salon in town and makes her way uncertainly over the threshold. Her request for help will surely cost her a whole year’s salary if not two, and she and Kieran will have to live in a campervan for the rest of their lives, if they can afford one. But the sign on the outside of the salon caught her eye and drew her in:
Hair problems or disasters? Let us help you!
Okay, the sign was tiny compared to all the others around it, but Olivia felt it offered her a lifeline and she made her decision there and then.
Inside, Olivia can see four or five super-slim women, mainly blonde (her worst nightmare come true!), dealing with clients, and a couple of even younger girls sweeping up hair. The reception desk is empty and she’s just about to change her mind and make serious plans for getting married with a bag on her head when a dark-haired medium-build woman in her twenties pops up from behind the desk where she must have been hiding and gives her a bright smile.
“Good morning, madam! What can I do for you?”
Before Olivia can reply, the brunette steps out from around the desk, wide-eyed.
“You poor thing,” she says. “What on earth has happened to your hair?”
Olivia has the whole explanation rehearsed in her head concerning what she is going to say and how to make any potential hair saviour understand what may need to be done. It’s a tour-de-force of monologue, but she doesn’t get to say any of it. Instead, to her own surprise, she bursts into tears and begins to sob.
“Hush there,” the girl says, and gives Olivia an unexpected hug.
Olivia finds herself whisked away into what must be the staff room at the back and handed a box of soft tissues. Moments later, as she is still sobbing, a mug of sweet tea is thrust into her hand and she takes a grateful gulp.
“I just wanted everything to be perfect,” she wails but as quietly as she can, bearing in mind the salon’s customers. “I’m getting married in September and I just wanted everything to be okay! Then I get my hair done by a mad woman and now look at me. I can’t get married like this, I just can’t!”
Then Olivia collapses into yet more sobs whilst yet more tissues are gently pushed into her grasp. She blows her nose and takes a gulp of tea. She isn’t holding out much hope that either of these activities will make her feel any better but, in a totally strange way, they do the trick. Or as near as makes no difference.
She blows her nose again and wipes her eyes. “Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to get all emotional like this. I’m so sorry. You must think I’m a total idiot.”
“Not at all,” the girl replies. “We get a lot of brides in here and it’s a very stressful time. People don’t realise. When my sister got married a couple of years back, she almost killed her fiancé twice before the wedding and they’re totally crazy about each other. But don’t worry about your hair. There’s plenty of time to sort it out before September so you’ve done right to come in and see us. My name’s Gemma, by the way. I specialise in hair situations.”
“Hello, Gemma. Nice to meet you,” Olivia says, smiling weakly and thinking that ‘hair situations’ is the best understatement she’s heard so far this year. “And thanks for the tea and tissues.”
Ten minutes later when Olivia has finished her tea, Gemma somehow manages to fit her in for a brief consultation. A few minutes after this, Olivia is having her hair washed with the most glorious-smelling coconut shampoo. Even the smell makes her more hopeful that maybe – just maybe – she may not look like a battered old loo brush at her own wedding. She really doesn’t want to have to wear a veil. After towel-drying her hair, Gemma applies a thick layer of conditioner – which again smells of that amazing coconut aroma – and tells Olivia she’s going to leave it in for ten minutes before washing it out again.
“This stuff works wonders,” she says. “You’ll be totally surprised. And the good thing is – though I can check it out when I blow dry it – that the cut you’ve had already is pretty decent. With a little help from us and these products, you’re going to look fantastic on your Big Day, I promise you!”
Olivia still isn’t sure but when Gemma holds up the obligatory hairdresser mirror, she gasps. “Goodness, that looks a million times better!”
The other woman just smiles as Olivia runs her fingers gently through her hair. It feels better and far less itchy too. Result! Okay, not how it was before That Woman tried to ruin it, but certain
ly better, so a result still. But the real question is: will it last?
She glances up at Gemma. “It’s wonderful, thank you. You’re a total miracle-worker, but is it going to stay like this or do I have to do something to make it how it was?”
“Good question,” Gemma replies, grabbing a chair and whizzing it across the floor to sit next to Olivia. “So here’s what I think you should do.”
Five minutes later, and Olivia has been given strict instructions concerning using the commercial range of the emergency shampoo and its matching conditioner which Gemma used today. Bearing in mind the totally gorgeous coconut smell which now wraps itself round her, Olivia is more than happy to follow instructions. She doesn’t even mind the price of the treatment and the products – which are far beyond what she usually pays for shampoo and even a hair cut, but not as crippling as she’s feared, thank goodness. She would have paid four times as much to grab a decent chance not to look like a drowned rat at her wedding. Maybe even five times …
From that time onwards, Olivia uses the salon shampoo and prays her hair will be up to the job come September. She hopes her prayers will be answered.
Chapter Seven: The Problem of Presents
Not long after the engagement, Olivia and Kieran discover the problem of presents is far more challenging than they imagine. Not that they’ve imagined very much, as it isn’t high on their list of things which are important. They are more focused on where to get married, who to invite and what to wear to give more than a passing thought to what guests may like to give them.
Olivia isn’t convinced it matters. “Surely we have more than enough of everything?” she says idly to Kieran when she comes off the phone to her mother for the third time that evening. “Why do we have to expect anyone to bring gifts anyway?”
Kieran looks up from his book about American warfare and gives her a quizzical glance. “Did I miss the start of this conversation or were you just speaking very, very quietly?”
Olivia raises her eyebrows. “No, just thinking aloud. Mum keeps asking about gifts and what the family should buy us, but I’ve not paid it much attention. Maybe we should be super-good and ask them to give something to charity? A goat, or even a cow? We have all the stuff we need.”
Kieran purses his lips and puts down his book. Heavens, Olivia thinks, it must be serious. He’s obviously thinking about his response, which may – or may not – bode well.
“Wouldn’t that be cheating a bit?” he asks after a couple of moments.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, people like to give an actual gift when they come to a wedding, don’t they?” Kieran replies. “They can do good at any time, but we’re only going to get married once.”
Olivia can only agree. It’s no to the goats and cows then.
“So what do you suggest?” she asks him. “I don’t want to faff around with wedding lists in shops – they’re all the same as everyone else’s lists and anyway I hate posh shops. They’re full of blonde women at least twenty years younger than I am, who stare at me as if I don’t belong in their silly shops.”
“That would make them less than ten years old,” Kieran says, with unquestionable logic. “Which would be illegal in this country, and should be illegal everywhere else too. Anyway, those blonde women are only jealous of that curvy redhead they’ve just met and that’s why they’re staring.”
With that, he lunges at her, and Olivia giggles as she pretends to fight him off. The discussion is shelved for the moment.
A few days later, she judges it the right time to raise it again. Kieran is halfway through his bottle of beer and they are idly watching television – some wildlife programme though neither of them is particularly keen on nature. Olivia is a country girl and hasn’t much truck for animals, having had her fill of them in her girlhood, and Kieran feels the same, though his reasons as a townie are lack of familiarity.
“So,” Olivia says, tickling Kieran’s leg with her bare foot. “Wedding lists, what do you think?”
He glances at her, before taking another sip of his beer. “Any chance of distracting you somehow?”
She shakes her head and laughs. “Sorry, no. We need to talk about gift lists so I can cross it off my Things To Do sheet.”
“You mean: cross the lists off your list?”
“Something like that. According to Mum, people are starting to ask so we might as well give them something to go on.”
Kieran sighs and then sits up and grabs a sheet of paper and a pen from the coffee table drawer. “Okay, but let’s offer cheap stuff, and not all the crazily expensive stuff you see on other people’s wedding lists.”
“Good idea,” Olivia agree. “We’ll do it our way.”
With that, she snuggles down next to Kieran and they begin to consider the options. The first and very surprising disagreement arises quickly. Olivia has already discussed the possibility of a few key pieces of nice china with her mother for whenever she and Kieran begin to hold posh grown-up dinners rather than the casual suppers or takeaways they invite their friends to share in. The two women have picked something floral from the Royal Doulton range, which Kieran starts to flick to in the brochure she’s brought him. She’s convinced he’ll be happy with the choice.
“I know it’s got flowers in the pattern,” she says. “But they’re green and blue – not to girly at all. It’ll be different from the usual plain stuff everyone seems to have these days. I mean we don’t want to be like everyone else, do we?”
Kieran laughs. “There’s no danger of that. Even our friends think we’re pretty weird. Ah, here it is.”
Olivia sits back with a smile and waits for his agreement. It doesn’t come. Kieran is gazing at the glorious picture on the page and frowning.
Surely that can’t be right. Is he ill?
“Are you okay?” she asks him. Mind you, she isn’t entirely sure what to do if her fiancé has suddenly taken a turn for the worst. Kieran is never ill.
He gazes at her. “It’s a bit garish, isn’t it?”
For a moment, Olivia has no idea what he’s talking about as her mind has already raced on into all sorts of terrifying scenarios, and she blinks at him before she understands.
“You mean: the china pattern?”
“Pattern?” he says. “You mean the bunch of fake flowers that someone has thrown at this innocent plate?”
She mock-punches his arm and he pretends to squirm. “What are you going on about, you idiot,” she says but she is already starting to laugh, the battle all but lost for sure. “It’s a beautiful choice for our list – everyone will sit up and take notice of something like that.”
“I’m sure they will, but for all the wrong reasons. Anyway, they’ll definitely think we’ve gone mad – everyone knows we don’t like gardens and flowers and that kind of stuff. Have you been chatting to your mother again?”
Olivia has to concede the point. The trouble with getting married and having a fiancé is that – if you’re doing it right – they know you too well and you are therefore less likely to get away with anything.
“Okay, then,” she says. “No floral china patterns. We’re getting presents for us, not me and my mother. What sort of pattern do you like, darling? We could always get some more Denby’s if you don’t fancy any china.”
She and Kieran have a soft spot for Denby’s crockery and have already stashed away twelve dinner plates, five side plates (one sadly broken) and quite a few mugs in their time together just for everyday use. The sheer number of the collection also means they don’t need to wash up quite as often which is always a plus point. The pattern is fairly plain – white with a dark blue trim – but Olivia doesn’t mind that.
Her fiancé nods. “Yes, we could. But wouldn’t it be nice to have something not for everyday use that we could bring out occasionally? I’ve been thinking about this for a few days and I’ve found some options I like. I’ll get the brochure.”
He rummages in his briefcase and pulls out a W
edgwood brochure. Olivia is impressed. He then turns to page 42 which shows the plainest set of crockery she’s ever seen – nothing but white on white, with a touch of white just to add a bit of excitement to the whole thing. She can’t help but laugh. Not because of the sort of style her fiancé likes – he’s nothing if not subtle and the utter opposite of herself – but Kieran never ever does any pre-planning so the fact he’s thought about wedding lists at all is astonishing. “You mean you’ve actually been compiling a present list anyway! How long have you been doing that without telling me?”
He has the grace to blush a little. “For a few days. Like I said. And I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”
“I know! I was just teasing you. I’m glad you’re getting involved. It’s your wedding too.”
He smiles at her. “Really? I thought weddings were all about the women, and the men were just along for the ride.”
Olivia knows he’s joking – his smile tells her so – but what if underneath he truly means it? She knows she can be – or rather definitely is – a loud-mouthed kick-ass tyrant, but she loves him, and she desperately wants him to be happy.
“Oh darling,” she hugs him impulsively, all but causing his glasses to fall off. “I don’t want you to think that, not even if you didn’t really mean it! I honestly don’t want you to think it’s all about me. I know I’ve got an ego the size of Manhattan, with a voice to match, but this wedding is about you and me, and nobody else. And I want you to be happy with what we do. I love you so much.”
Kieran pushes his glasses back on, and hugs her back. He isn’t a natural hugger but he’s got used to it over the time they’ve been together.
“I know,” he says, “and I love you too. And you don’t have a big ego. You just have a huge lot of enthusiasm, and I love that about you. But, yes, it’s nice to do things together so let’s start from scratch now when it comes to posh china. Why not look at what we both like and see if we can compromise?”
Now this sounds like a plan.
