Page 31 of Secrets of Starshine
They’ve decided between themselves that the mum called Sally should go first, on the pragmatic basis that her three-year-old, Ethan, is the most likely to get bored and start smashing things up first. She says she just wants the dead ends cutting off, as little as possible, and a nice straight blow-dry.
Clients tend to fall into a few categories when it comes to their hair – some, like Sally, are wary and super-conservative, while others walk in and want radical transformations, like cutting off their long dark hair and making it short and pink. Others walk in with a picture of someone like Margot Robbie and declare they want to look “just like that”. I remember on one occasion, my boss Jo was at the end of a long shift, maybe a little over-tired, when that happened. She took one look at the woman’s actual hair, and another at the photo, and declared: “Well, I can do my best, but I’m only a hairdresser. If you’re looking for a miracle, there’s a church at the top of the road.”
It was all taken in good spirits, as most things are in the salon, but I hope nobody turns up here today with great expectations.
I get Sally rinsed off, and chat to her about her kids and her life here, while I do a quick trim and then a blow-dry. That is repeated, with a few variations, with the other ladies, who all seem delighted with the end result. Each of them tries to pay me, and each time I refuse, Connie redirects them to a collection box by the door.
As my next group arrives and is rapidly shepherded through for a shampoo, I ask her what they’re collecting for.
“Oh, we’re kind of adopting a doctor…Ella has these friends who she knew at uni. Lucy, who lives in Ireland with her teenaged daughter; Katie, who has a couple of kids and is a dentist; and Priya, who’s a hospital psychiatrist. Priya set up a scheme to support medical staff who want to volunteer abroad. The doctor we raise funds for is working in Bangladesh. We do a few events, and things like this – when a hairdresser falls from on high – are perfect. I knew you wouldn’t take any money from them, so I left the box there so they could donate instead. Everyone’s a winner.”
It’s a lovely idea, and I am glad to have been able to contribute in my own small way.
The day progresses, with people coming and going, and by lunch time I have seen eight ladies and one man – a strapping blonde lad called Ged who wanted a short back and sides. Each of them left with a smile on their face.
We pause for a quick sandwich, brought over by the teenagers once the café is closed. There are still people turning up, and I’m getting worried that I won’t fit everyone in, so we decide that Sophie and Sam will take over the shampoo station. Sam knows how to do this stuff almost as well as I do, as he’s grown up in and out of salons – he’s even got a few head massage skills up his sleeve.
For a few more hours, I trim and style and pin, doing a few curly-blows and leaving some with rollers in to take out later; I even out home-cut fringes, and remove tangles, and give advice on colours, and give some heads more volume and some less.
I meet the Betties properly, providing a dry trim to Big Betty’s pixie cut – Big Betty is about five foot nothing, and predictably Little Betty is an amazon. I adapt to this quickly, as it’s quite a Scouse thing – everyone has a nickname or a shortened version of their own name, and it’s often not what you’d expect.
I offer to do Connie once things quieten down, but she shakes her head and says sadly: “No use. I don’t mind my curls these days – hated them as a kid, obviously – but every now and then I love having it all straight. Problem is it only lasts until I sleep on it or get it wet, so even if you did it now, by tomorrow I’d be a wreck again.”
“Well,” I say, reaching out to hold up her thick tresses, “it is gorgeous the way it is. But maybe tomorrow morning, if it’s not too intrusive and you have time, I can give you a mini-makeover?”
I see her turning it over in her mind, obviously thinking about what she has to do and whether the timings work, and eventually she replies: “Could you come to the café, do you think? There’ll be a lull at some point or another…”
“Course I can. It’s not like Sam will be rushing around the place wondering if Santa’s been and asking me to set up his new toys.”
“At which point you’d realise you had all the wrong batteries and the screwdriver doesn’t fit anyway.”
“Yup. We’ve all been there…”
As we chat, Miranda walks sheepishly into the hall, looking around as though someone is going to ask her to leave. She shuffles towards us, and mutters something about how she’s probably too late, and it’s no problem if I’m finished, but if not, she’d love to get a quick trim because God knows when she’ll have the time again when the baby comes.
“If he ever comes,” she adds, glaring at her own stomach.
I lead her through to the sinks, and very carefully set her up for a wash. It is a logistical challenge but we manage it, deciding to skip the conditioning stage as she doesn’t think she can squash herself close to the taps again. She really is enormous, poor thing. My heart goes out to her – she is, on the surface, pretty young, late teens or early twenties, but something about the nervous way she speaks and avoids eye contact gives me the impression that life has already thrown quite a lot at her.
I towel dry her hair, and comb it through. It is thick and heavy and clearly hasn’t seen the sharp end of a pair of scissors for quite a while. She tells me to lop off as much as I want, which is always a dangerous thing to say to a hairdresser, but I settle for evening it out as a shoulder length bob – long enough that she can still tie it back to avoid baby sick. Ah, the joys.
We are chatting away about her preparations, about names, about childbirth – I lie and tell her mine was a breeze, because nobody in her condition needs to hear a horror story – and I feel her suddenly tense beneath my touch.
“Are you okay?” I ask, concerned. “Is it too short?”
“Umm, no…” she murmurs, shifting in her chair and sounding mortified. “I think…oh God, I think I just peed myself a bit! I’m so sorry!”
I place my hands on her shoulders, and meet her eyes in the mirror.
“And did you feel like you needed the loo before, or did it just happen without any warning?”
“Are you kidding? Ialwaysfeel like I need the loo…but yeah. It was pretty sudden. And I think I’m still leaking. This can’t be my waters breaking, can it? Because on the telly it always happens really dramatically. Like, big splash, action stations!”
“Right. Well, that’s on the telly – in real life, it can be just a little slow trickle.”
She pulls a face, wrinkles her nose in disgust at the whole conversation, and clearly wants to ignore whatever is happening down below. Can’t say I blame her.
“I think,” I say, firmly, “that you should probably get checked out, just in case.”
