The Cat, The Haircut & Helena Bonham Carter.
After work on Thursday I spotted this lovely lady – Lucy – lounging on the back of a ute. She was very agreeable, and I would have stayed a while, but there were Things To Do, including a horribly long overdue haircut.
I have a love/hate relationship with the process of getting a haircut. As the appointment approaches I look forward to it eagerly. Somehow it assumes in my mind the power to make me appear not only prettier and more elegant, but also smarter and more capable, ready to take on, impress and charm the the socks off all I encounter.
I sit in the chair and tell the stylist what I want – a long layered bob that looks half decent even though I won’t be blow drying it, because I haven’t owned a hairdryer since 1993 (it was a Snoopy hairdryer and was therefore, as you can imagine, the most brilliant hairdryer anywhere ever). Hairdressers tend to have an incredibly hard time accepting this fact, but fact it is, and so my stylist nods his head and tells me what he’s going to do, in effect telling me what I want, but maybe with slight changes? I still feel confident, but now with the added sensation that I have been confounded, just a little.
Any doubts, however, are banished when he washes my hair. This is the highlight for me – not just because of the head massage, which is so good I think my head might roll off my neck and onto the floor – but because of the sheer magic of having someone else rinse, shampoo, rinse, condition and rinse my hair. It’s a simple thing, but there’s something so very relaxing about it. Bliss.
Then he sets to snipping. How much did he just cut off? Maybe it’s not so much. No, a piece just almost fell into my glass of wine, and it was… lengthy. But, short bobs are good too! A short bob would be better! What was I thinking before? This will be fine. This will be splendid.
I should mention, each time I see him my stylist devotes himself to the pursuit of making my hair curlier, despite the fact that it is is stubbornly wavy, and disinclined to venture anywhere near the true territory of curliness. Alas. But, endeavour he must (and I let him, as he seems to derive satisfaction from the challenge), so as he blow dries my hair he scrunches it violently, trying to encourage the curl, because surely, if he just scrunches enough and uses enough product…
My hair looks like a birds nest.
He’s still scrunching, still snipping around the edges, coming at it from all angles like Edward Scissorhands. Sometimes he’s not even cutting my hair but the air around it, a man possessed. Now I’m thinking of Tim Burton I wonder that if I just tilt my head and squint my eyes … the hair does look like something Helena Bonham Carter might go for, and she is, as we all know, incredibly cool.
I hand over my money, and wrap myself in the consolation of my potential Helena-Bonham-Carterness on my way home, ignoring the frank and pitying stares of well-groomed strangers. I shut the front door behind me and tumble into the shower straight away, finishing the ritual by washing all that product, and all that scrunching styling effort, away. I go to sleep with it still half-wet (because I don’t own a hairdryer), and wake the next morning refreshed… and with a rather lovely haircut. Wait, what? Now the crazy styling has gone, it’s exactly what I wanted – a bit too short at the back perhaps, but still, very nicely done.
And that’s why I keep going back.
This is for you. Rufus and HBC, together. Wonderful.
Anyone want to join me in the stacks?