Enthusiasm

 

Enthusiasm

We can all get carried away from time to time. A university lecturer I knew a long time ago wanted to follow the trend for extremely curly hair, but didn’t want to have a perm. Somehow, he discovered that washing his hair in laundry powder – I believe it was ‘Persil’ – would create the same effect. I think he overdid it, because eventually his hair started falling out. He had to forego fashion to save his hair. It ruined his love life, too.

Another man of my husband’s acquaintance was taking part in the London Marathon many years ago. He was raising money for charity, as so many competitors do, and, in a moment of patriotic enthusiasm, had a union flag painted onto his hair.

All went well, the race was run, and then he attempted to wash out the colours. Unfortunately, he was unsuccessful. As the CEO of a serious organisation, he was expected to present a sober front at work. Nothing he tried worked, and in desperation he contacted his doctor. The doctor was unable to help, either, so perhaps the poor man had to call in sick for a while.

Hair Affairs 3 A trip to the hairdresser

If you have been following this blog for any time you will know that I loathe going to the hairdresser. I've been avoiding it for some months. The last time I went was to a small establishment just round the corner from our house. The work was competent but I was really an accessory to the exciting life of the salon. The staff chattered to each other and planned their social lives and proposed holidays. It was very interesting and within minutes I knew who was related to whom, who was straight and who gay and what they planned to do that evening after work but it was hardly personal service. The woman cutting my hair might as well have been practising on a dummy! And I had to suggest 'feathering' my fringe or I would have emerged with something like a pudding basin cut!

Well, this week I decided I really must get my hair sorted out. I'd been trimming my fringe so that I looked almost human and could see where I was going but the rest had grown very long and was increasingly difficult to contain in the claw that keeps hair off my face. The girl who greeted me was tall, slim, young with a beautiful smile. She proceeded to drag her fingers through my hair which was when I discovered that she had very sharp nails. Having established what she would do – 'a long bob, slightly longer at the sides with some long layers' – she washed my hair. That was okay though at times I felt I was having not just a shampoo but a shower too.

The shampooing completed I was damply led like a lamb to slaughter to a seat in front of a large, unforgiving mirror. She attempted to 'comb out' – the jargon is so obvious! – but met tangles galore. Then she spent some minutes trying to extricate her rings from my hair. The cutting was quite an experience! My head was pushed forwards, backwards, from one side to the other. Occasionally, realising I was capable of independent movement, she asked me to move my head and each request was attended by an endearment. I don't care to be called 'darling' and 'sweetheart' by someone I've only just met, particularly a young person who thinks I'm as old as Methuselah and probably short of a marble or two.

By now my head was aching. The salon was full and hot and I just wanted to get out and go home, but I wasn't 'finished' yet. Actually, the stylist was only just beginning. The hair drying came next – she was very vigorous and pulled the plug out three times. She wasn't so much blow-drying my hair as creating a small wind tunnel and once again my head was pulled from one side to the other, her finger nail catching in my ear. I wondered if any of the other clients or staff had noticed what was going on as I was yanked from vertical to horizontal.

The final trim was interesting. There was so much static electricity in my hair that it was flying out as though I'd grabbed a live wire. The bits the young woman managed to capture and cut flew up onto her lip gloss and her eyelashes. More brushing ensued but her attempts to make my hair obediently curl under failed completely so she resorted to much hair spray and a crunching, crushing action I'd never seen before. This method was also unsuccessful and my limp hair hung resolutely straight and unrepentant. The back looked reasonable, but she'd cut off more than I had asked her to and it is barely possible to put it up without scraping it tightly off my face, giving me an instant and unflattering facelift.

Much, much later as I relived the whole astonishing episode I realised that she had neglected to use conditioner on my hair. It's a safe bet that I shall not be asking for that stylist again!




 

Hair Affairs

Aged 11

I have never liked people fiddling with my hair. My husband used to swoon with delight when first our daughters and then our granddaughters plaited his golden curls. Sadly this doesn't happen any more; tempus fugit and so does the hair (would that be 'coma fugit'?) He's also extremely ticklish and loves to have his back tickled – a form of Indian massage first practised on him by his ayah. I'm not ticklish at all, not even my feet, and any massage I have must be firm and strong, not tentative and feathery.

When I was a child I had long hair, as straight as a yard of pump water. My mother would plait it, brushing out the tangles first. Her response to my ouches of protest never varied – 'You have to suffer to be beautiful.' Looking in the mirror these days I can see I didn't suffer enough at all. During the summer months the head lice really seemed to get into their stride and as my hair was always shining clean they made a bee-line (louse-line?) for my head. The consequence of this was that my hair would be coated plastered in a foul-smelling eye-watering paste that was impossible difficult to wash out (more pain) Following this my mother would spread a white napkin on her lap, take a metal fine-tooth comb and rake my tresses from roots to tips to remove any eggs left behind. It was sheer purgatory!

My sister, fifteen years my senior, trained as a hairdresser and when I was about four our mother asked her if she could put something on my fair hair to lighten it. Beryl duly applied the peroxide (my scalp still stings to think of it) but forgot to wash it out so I went from fair to white bottle-blonde! It must have looked quite startling with my pale skin and hazel-brown eyes! Aged eleven and about to enter grammar school I decided I would like to have my hair cut short. My long thick plaits disappeared and I discovered that short hair needed much more work to keep tidy and looking presentable. I remember curling tongs, heated to an uncomfortable temperature and applied to my locks to encourage them to curl. The smell of singeing keratin only added to my fear certainty that I would soon have curling, smoking skin on my neck.

Later my mother and I decided that a 'perm' might be the answer to my steadfastly vertical hair. Rather than go to a hairdresser we used a concoction sold for home use. Oh dear! I had forgotten until this moment the horror of the resulting mess. Time has erased all memory of the ensuing weeks as the dreadful frizz grew out. Almost as bad was the time she and I decided to try a different colour – my mother was always a willing accomplice. Now that I think about it I realise she may have been a hairdresser manqué. We thought it would be fun to lighten my dark mouse hair. I don't know what went wrong but I had to endure several weeks of a nasty gingerish colour which grew out very slowly. Why does hair never grow quickly when you really, really want it to? I have no objection to ginger hair – in its many tones and shades it is quite beautiful with the correct complexion. It looked completely wrong on me; although I do have natural red lights in my hair the basic colour is boring mid-brown.

In the following years I wore my hair long, short and frequently coloured, though never by professionals. At various times I determined to have my hair properly cared for but rarely maintained the routine. I find hairdressers intimidating! Maybe it's my imagination or maybe I really am  neurotic do read too much into other people's expressions. Do I imagine the curl of the lip as hands flip carelessly through my hair?

                                           Aged 40

More than that, it is the lighting and the mirrors that are very off-putting. I rarely study myself in the looking glass, unlike some members of my family one or two people of my acquaintance who cannot pass a mirror without stopping to scrutinise their reflections. Some people appear quite relaxed in the harsh glare but I am conscious that looking like a drowned rat gorilla is not a flattering look. I spend my time looking through the mirror at clients behind me as they conduct animated conversations with their stylists. I hear them enthusiastically recounting their latest projects – the AmDram tells of her starring role, the self-assured 17-year-old boy from the local independent school regales everyone in earshot with his views on life and the universe, the woman in her mid-thirties tells of her house move to an exclusive estate, the retired businessman recounts thrilling events from his luxury cruise. I listen and marvel that they are confident their listeners will be interested.
I have had one or two hairdressers who, refreshingly, didn't constantly attempt to engage me in chitchat and a couple who were happy to talk about themselves. Usually the pattern is thus:
Stylist: 'Have you been working today?'
Me: 'No, I stopped working some time ago.'
Stylist: 'Are you ready for Christmas/going away/got any plans for Easter/doing anything later?'
Me: (rapidly considering responses and discarding them as inappropriate) Ermm, no, not really.
I know that this exchange will be repeated when I see her again next time. I know she's really not interested but simply following the script.
By the way, my hair is quite long again!

                In the forest with Bethan, December 2009 - simply aged!

ABC Wednesday Round 5 H Hats

As the warm protective covering of HAIR on HIS HEAD diminishes, Barry favours HATS.Not all the HEADGEAR is HIS. There is a school HAT in the HEAP from the HALCYON days of Bethan's primary school.

When cycling he wears a HELMET to save his HEAD from HARM He was never HIRSUTE - he is not an HAIRY man like 'my brother Esau.'

Thank you to Mrs Nesbitt for hosting this enjoyable meme.

To see more ABCs please click here.