Hairline Disaster

I know there is more to worry on Earth and in life than a bad hairdo. I know it does eventually grow back and until it happens science and technology have developed a range of very expensive products that will help to disguise a ridiculous quiff into something still ugly but at least less noticeable. I know this probably shouldn’t be the subject of a complaint and even less of an article. I should have been wiser. I should have behaved like a real woman: be prepared to pay a bit more and book an appointment in a good establishment. That is my entire fault and the look I will drag with me for a few weeks is my punishment.

This is how it all started: a bad night, little sleep and a very painful hangover in the morning. Stumbling into the bathroom, after fighting not to dose back on the toilet seat, I give a quick check in the mirror. Red cheeks, red eyes, red spots, heavy white tongue and mascara drooling all over my face like I am ready to take part in some kind of Goth freak show.  But the worst is probably the mop style piece of carpet I usually call my hair. I realise it makes the whole picture look even worse, a bit like this weird black bob Kelly Osbourne stubbornly keeps walking around with. You think it would give her some kind of edge as actually it just emphasises the boredom of her frumpy face. So here I am staring at the dead fox covering my entire head and feeling very depressed about it all. And the dead fox stares back at me and I swear it actually grins viciously and waggle its greasy tale in my general direction. I will turn thirty in a week and I don’t want to look like this anymore.

That’s it, I will fight back. My days of “I’m so cool dude I don’t care to wash my hair in weeks because it looks like I have just been surfing some waves” are over. I am a responsible woman and I will stand proud of my newfound identity. But before taking drastic actions, let’s try a little DIY under the shower. Soaking, massaging, washing, conditioning, brushing…and repeat. After forty minutes the bathroom looks like Vietnamese landscape in the mist of dawn. A quick check in the mirror. Red cheeks, red spots, red eyes… but the mascara has gone, hurray! Back in the bedroom I blow-dry and lovingly brush my sumptuous mane, trying to think which celebrity could play myself in a blockbuster about my life. Job’s done, I turn around to have a look at the new sleek Jennifer Connelly… and find myself staring in horror at a demented out-of-bed Helena Bowman-Carter in Planet of the Apes.

Time for plan B which will involve a little expense, a little socializing but certainly some good professional results. I have to say I don’t go that often to the hairdresser. Maybe once or twice a year. Because I am scared of them. They always seem to know better than you what you want and most of the time it’s true. The problem is they seem to take a sadistic pleasure in doing the opposite. And you never dare to complain just in case they would take the hump and just shave your head like Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver. As a kid I got some bad experiences ( all I wanted was a cute little bob and I regularly ended up looking like Joan of Arc without the military prestige or divine aura ) so my only option until my 16th birthday was to get my mother to do whatever she could with her kitchen scissors so I could still go to school without boys throwing stones at me on the street. Needless to say I wasn’t the most popular girl around. I got so upset one day I decided to get a very short and boyish cut in defiance of common fashion. I was very proud of myself for this move of pure opposition to the system, until people started to shake my hand and call me “dude” in public. Then after high school my newfound freedom didn’t bring me any luck in the hair department: it was the time of big hits Melrose Place and Beverly Hills 90210 and everyone “cool” would carry around these amazing perms and glued spiky quiff I had no interest whatsoever to get for myself.

Of course I desperately wanted friends but I preferred my self-esteem. So I carried on pretending I didn’t give a damn about the way my hair looked and persuaded myself it made me some kind of free-spirited university Amazon that wouldn’t score that much because I would look so unreachable. To be honest once in a while I would take a bus to a remote part of town away from all the other students and get some work done, out of pure vanity I guess, then wear a hat for the following month, hiding the ridicule of a thick fringe or the out-of-this-world pattern of my new cut layers. And it’s been like this ever since.

 So once again I had to face my nemesis, to overcome my fear of professional scissor-hands, brave the odds and get myself a new head. After all I am an adult now, and all these stupid anecdotes only happen to children, teenagers and students, right?

Here I am, wandering in town and finally pushing the door of a random shop and realising at this precise moment I have stepped through the gates of hell and there is no way out of it. You know this bizarre feeling that paralyze you sometimes and prevent you of leaving a shop without buying anything before hands even if you don’t need any of it? Well this is what happens to me when this weird looking youngster with half her skull died in pink approaches me. The alarm in my head is ringing full blast and I feel like running to my own panic room, curl up in a ball and cry until she leaves me alone. There is only one way out of this:

“ I need a haircut right now. I suppose you don’t have any availability? Well never mind.” And I am about to turn around and jog on when the pink-headed alien smiles broadly. “It’s your lucky day we just got a cancellation! Danielle will be with you in a minute.” A cancellation. Lucky bastard. He or she probably got warned of the danger by some good friends I can’t afford to have. Now I am trapped in the pit of doom, Tinkerbelle takes my bag and jacket, sits me down in front of a huge mirror that reflects my humiliating personal image and I am left alone for some excruciating minutes staring at some dumb magazine filled with extraordinary good-looking people. 

Next is shampoo time which is supposed to be a relaxing warm-up to the emotional capillary marathon you’re about to run. And for a moment I have to admit I do relax : the warm water running down my temples, the candy floss smell of the conditioner, the dim lights that makes me slip into a sweet hangover coma…from which I am rudely awoken by shampoo-boy, an annoyingly skinny and cool looking indie dude who starts to massage my scalp as if his only purpose is to rub it away from my skull. The water gets way too hot for my irritated skin and some of it actually drips into my ears so I can barely hear him when he hesitantly asks: “So what kind of colour is that in you hair? Do you DO this yourself?” I feel like disappearing into one of these furry balls that are all over the floor of the shop. “Well hmmm I have always thought myself as a brunette… and I haven’t done anything, this is my real colour.” Embarrassed silence from shampoo-boy who keeps scrubbing  my head even harder.

Feeling all dizzy and raw I find myself meeting Danielle. Danielle is a bubbly girl probably half my age who seems more confident than any adult I have ever met in my life. She asks me to talk about my hair. In the chair next to me a young guy has been babbling for the last ten minutes with one of the stylists about his part-dry part-greasy scalp and how it makes him feel really self-conscious in front of customers. He sounds really upset but I have good hopes for him as the blonde and pouty professional holds his hand compassionately saying she “completely understands the problem, babe”. Back to Danielle I struggle to get a sound out of my mouth and end up with a faint “Please get rid of this” pointing at the heart of my problem when all I really want to scream out loud is “You are my only hope Obi-Wan Kenobi, please make me human again so I can improve my social life and look into a mirror without to force a cynical grin. I want to look good, I want to look sexy and sophisticated, I want that perfect Jennifer Aniston look nobody can achieve apart from her but God be my witness we are going to try Obi-Wan and we won’t get any rest until my self confidence and pride are restored, that is our destiny!” But all I manage to say blushing like a school girl is: “I just want a haircut, you know, just refresh it a little.”

 Somehow I think Danielle could sense my distress. However as soon as she starts to work I can guess nothing will be really done in the direction I wish my hair to take. “You need something young, something hip, something fun” she says tucking into my lengths. “Your hair is flat, completely flat, like you are thirty years old or something.” Bang on Danielle, bang on. “And you GOT to stop doing your own colour.” My nails dig deep into the leather of the chair and I clench my teeth in a resilient smile. “So what I am thinking is trying to do with you what I have done with my friend Simone. Hey Simone, look over here!” and she points at a plump colleague of hers standing by the counter in very tight trousers and bright yellow blouse. Looking at the state of this Simone girl I can’t believe these two are actually still friends. All I can see is a wavy fringe that could make Jacques Cousteau sea-sick. Simone waves at me with her heavily painted finger nails that bare as many different nuances as her hairdo. A shiver runs down my spine. “I think I did a pretty good job, don’t you think? That will give you some kind of an edge.” Or push me over it if you want my opinion. But as Danielle doesn’t really want to hear it and would be heart broken to know her model friend just looks like a scare-crow dressed up like a white-trash Britney once again I nod bluntly and stare at the hair balls on the floor. I am the one paying you to make me look like a spastic poodle but all I worry about is your feelings…

Cowardly I surrender and sit through the whole half hour of cutting, brushing, straightening (hmmm the smell of burnt hair), layering, blow-drying, through the celebrity babbling to the local gossip and personal dreams of a Malibu saloon  ready to style the great Paris Hilton and Beyonce (“I bet you can go wild with their hair”). Finally her work is done and Danielle proudly circles around me with a hand mirror to let me admire the result. It looks like I have four kinds of hairdo in one, like I am trying too hard to look like the whole cast of the OC at once, like I was the long lost child of Chuck Norris and Roseanne Barr. I feel like crying but fight back the tears to exit the shop as soon as I can under the cheers of all the girls inside who are probably high-fiving each other by the time I walk around the corner.

Back home I spend an hour soaking in a bath, hoping for a miracle to occur, like a total black-out combined with a month-long sun eclipse so it would give me time to grow something new in the secrecy of darkness. Unfortunately this doesn’t happen and I find myself soon enough checking my stock of hats and caps, trying to come up with some excuse to skip work for a few weeks. This is high school all over again. Yes, there is definitely more to worry about on Earth than a bad hairdo, but if anyone gets a way back into the past I would happily be living my adult life in the early eighties, where everything ugly was beautiful. I would be the Queen. I would call myself Sue-Ellen.