All the Fun of
the Fair
by Sheila
Cornelius
Books are
useful defences against all that life throws at
you. My favourite author’s Stephen King, but
anything in that line suits. Still, reading a
book doesn’t shield you from other
people’s interference, even at the
hairdressers.
When Carlotta
announced ‘I’ve never regretted going
strawberry blonde,’ brushing stray hairs
from her cleavage, I put the book aside. The colour reminded me of
marmalade, not strawberries. The clippings
round her feet were like the aftermath of a cat
fight.
‘Now then,
what can we do for you today?’ Jackie, the
manageress at 'Uppercuts', began to lift strands
of my hair, sighing and rolling her eyes.
It’s all part of a hairdresser’s craft,
undermining the customer's confidence. Even when
they’re not very persuasive themselves, the
TV ads do the job for them.
‘Just the
usual trim, I suppose?’ I simply nodded at
her reflection.
‘You
should try it,’ Carlotta said, looking at me
sideways as Jackie held up a hand mirror to the
back of her head. ‘A change of colour will
change your life.’ Carlotta had more or less
internalised all the TV make-over programmes.
‘At my
age?’
‘You’re
as old as you feel, and as young as you can pull!’
She wriggled, making the seat revolve. A woman
under the dryer rustled her ‘Hello’
magazine.
‘I’ll
tell you what - see how you get on with
highlights, for starters. My treat!’
I nearly
retorted, ‘I’ve no wish to look like a
zebra,’ but she’s been a good neighbour.
Ken said as much when I was away looking after my
mother.
‘It’ll
lighten more than just your hair,’ she
insisted.
She was right
– our lives did change. Especially when
Carlotta signed up Ken and me for the social club.
Being stuck in front of the box night after night
can get boring, as she said, and we were stuck in
a groove.
‘He’s
a diamond geezer, your Ken,’ she giggled on
our way back from line-dancing, tottering against
him so his hat tipped sideways. Ken acted like
any man would and got a good eyeful of what was
on offer. He’s a soft target.
Next time at
"Uppercuts", all it took was a
miniature gin bottle full of thick bleach,
sneaked in under a copy of The Devil and Mary
Ann and added it to the mix when Jackie was
in the back. The damage was only really apparent
when Carlotta came out from under the dryer.
I’d gone by then, but she was in hysterics,
according to Jackie, who gave her a cup of tea
and lent her a headscarf.
Carlotta’s
keen to dye the stubble as soon as possible, but
Jackie said no more bleach until her scalp’s
recovered. She can’t show her face at the
club. Never mind I tell her, what with all the
money she’ll save on haircuts she can afford
a new handbag; or I could recommend a good book
to help her while away the time.
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