However, as all women will testify, there is an importance to visiting the salon which almost all men simply fail to comprehend. This is one of the basic incompatibilities between the sexes and those few men who actually make the effort to bridge that divide, to show even a fraction more understanding than the grudgingly obligatory, ‘Yes, dear, your hair looks lovely,’ are whisked immediately into a nirvana of gastronomic and sexual ecstasy.
Occasionally, if they’re really lucky, both at the same time!
When a woman announces in irritation that her hair is a mess and that she needs – no, it is more than needs – that she is compelled by a deep-seated psychological necessity to get down to the salon, then there is no power in heaven nor earth capable of deflecting her determination – and for that the manufacturers of brushes, combs and mirrors will always be eternally grateful.
And shampoos.
And conditioners. Especially conditioners.
Once, many years ago, shampoos contained – well, shampoo, but nowadays, with a multi-billion pound industry driven by the planet’s most powerful corporate chemical companies and guided by slick advertising campaigns feeding on feminine paranoia, there is a positively kaleidoscopic range of available products, all containing something impressively exotic guaranteed to make your hair as irresistible to men as hot double chocolate fudge cake to a class of dieters. Even the most rudimentary browse along the supermarket shelves will reveal serum with coconut, honey, orange peel concentrate and kiwi fruit, or extra-hold conditioner with molasses, rosemary, lemon, marzipan, jojoba and sesame seed butter. There’s even a super new ethical green shampoo containing essence of vanilla, hempseed oil, cloves, a light seasoning of thousand island dressing and a soupçon of rhino dung extract, all blended with the distilled tears from poverty-stricken children living in countries still unable to reliably generate electricity.
And that’s just the natural substances. Matters become exceedingly interesting when chemists grin and rub their hands together. Now we’re in an entirely different ball game. Take polyquaternium, for instance, a substance found in shampoo which sounds like it could easily double up as the exciting ingredient in a weapon of mass destruction. A supervillain’s dream.
‘I will use the polyquaternium bomb, have no mistake!’
‘You bastard!’
‘Mr President, such language. The Pilgrim Fathers would not approve.’
‘But the children – have pity on the children!’
‘Rest assured they will all arrive at the pearly gates with unfeasibly shiny hair.’
Little wonder the ozone layer quietly gave up the ghost.
Some products now have so many active ingredients that an abandoned bottle, given sufficient time at the back of a warm bathroom cabinet, contains all the necessary chemical compounds to propagate a new form of life. A mini-world where nature weaves her magic wand, where the progression through single-celled creatures to more complex organisms gallops along at a merry pace until tiny mammals appear, and if they are by chance hirsute then they will develop new shampoos of their own – and so the universe proceeds in stately splendour, driven ever onwards by the twin unstoppable powers of evolution and hair care products.
Tewkesbury was a pleasant little town, Y-shaped, with the War Memorial at its heart. Cars hurtled around it like rampaging Cherokees around a wagon train. The main streets were lined with many timber-framed buildings, giving the centre a nostalgic, chocolate-box, medieval feel. Numerous alleyways plunged off to either side, veins branching from the main arteries to penetrate deep amongst the jumbled houses behind. It was here the Avon and Severn met, and both were notorious for flooding, the locals accepting this annual deluge with typical Gloucestershire stoicism. Every year the town became surrounded by creeping brown waters, every year the news crews turned up to pester the locals and every year they were told to mind their own business and shove off back to London in no uncertain terms.
Celeste left Wilf back at the cottage playing one of Bertie’s favourite games – Hide the Nut. Her baby was very good at this. He always found the nut, wherever it was hidden. Knowing that should keep them happily occupied for a few hours, she parked up and took a coffee and Danish pastry in a quaint tea shop adjacent to the Abbey, then strolled along the High Street. Despite her worries, the day was so fine she found herself in a really rather good mood, as any woman normally would be with such beautifully painted toenails and so pleasurable a sex life. Goodness, had that been a wonderful evening. She smiled at the memory and tossed her head, hair swinging luxuriantly. Behind her, a man fell over a litter bin.
Yes, it was a lovely morning.
Although she liked Tewkesbury very much, to her mind the town lacked a really first-class leather fetish boutique. But that wasn’t too much of a problem, she had an excellent relationship with a London specialist who helped her in that direction. She visited the bank, had a new battery put in her watch, and generally nosed in shops, all to cheerful greetings. People here were always happy to pass the time of day, to chat, to smile. She was reminded very much of the friendliness of Manaus. That town, too, was located at the confluence of two rivers, although she had to admit the Negro and the Solimoes had a bit more punch than the Avon and Severn.
Finally, it was time for her appointment. She had been using Snippets since moving from London. The salon was small and friendly, with just three chairs. The girls were very good, the prices reasonable, the tea and biscuits excellent and the conversation entertaining. What more could you want from a hairdressers?
She did not notice a man leaning casually against a lamp post on the opposite side of the road, a man whose eyes missed nothing. A notebook came out and information was duly recorded. Good, past experience told him the target would be occupied for an hour at the very least. Plenty of time for a pee, tea and bun before resuming surveillance.
‘Where’s Terry?’ asked Celeste as she sat. Teresa Green had been her stylist for two years and knew Celeste’s mind. The relationship between client and hairdresser was deeply symbiotic and based on a profound mystical connection of which male psychologists were blithely unaware.
‘I’m sorry, but Terry is unwell this morning, Celeste. I’m filling in for her. My name’s Doreen. Don’t worry, I’ve spoken to Terry and she’s told me you just have a minimal cut and blow dry.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Want to try a poodle perm?’ enquired Doreen mischievously.
‘Heavens, no!’ exclaimed Celeste. ‘With this lot frizzed up I don’t think I’d be able to get out of the door.’
‘And definitely no colouring required.’
‘None needed.’
‘So she said. I have to say, Celeste, I’ve never seen such a fabulous flame.’ Doreen stood behind Celeste. They communicated via the large mirror on the wall in front of the chair, as demanded by strict salon etiquette.
Celeste smiled. ‘I’m very proud of it.’
‘I would be, too,’ replied Doreen. ‘Incidentally, sorry about the scarf. I know, a hairdresser who covers up her own hair must have something to hide. Seems a bit suspicious, like a doctor who’s ill, but I’m recovering from chemo-hair at the moment. I look a bit like a patchy Betty Boop.’
‘No problem. I’m just glad to hear you’re getting better,’ said Celeste. Doreen was perhaps a few years older than she was, a comfortably built middle-aged woman with pale green eyes. She was dressed all in black, trousers and blouse, with a contrasting multi-patterned headscarf of bright primary colours completely covering her hair.
‘The nice shoes do help though, don’t they?’ commented Celeste. She’d noticed Doreen’s very smart floral print satin courts.
‘They do indeed.’
‘That’s quite a heel as well. Don’t you find your feet ache after a while?’
And so the conversation began. It ranged widely, covering such topics as scones (plain versus fruit), fashions for women who possessed a hip girdle actually capable of accommodating babies, the many del
ights of chocolate (preferably smeared over naked firemen), whether toilet paper rolls should be over- or under-hung and the genetic inability of men to load a dishwasher in the correct manner.
All amusing and accompanied by tea and busy scissors. Doreen had a dry sense of humour which appealed to Celeste. At no time did she ask where Celeste was going on holiday.
‘I remember you from the TV a few years ago,’ she finally said.
‘Yes, but I’m living the quiet life now. I’ve no ambition to be a celebrity. The intrusion is unbearable.’
‘I can imagine. You married James Timbrill, didn’t you?’
‘I did. We’re very happy.’
‘Is Bertie well?’
‘Thank you, yes. He enjoys country living very much.’
‘Haven’t met a bird yet that doesn’t like a tree. Except perhaps a penguin, but you know what I mean.’ Doreen paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. ‘I guess your husband finds life difficult at Westminster,’ she said finally. ‘Especially after the last election. The political elite doesn’t like independent thinking as much as the people of Gloucester.’
‘They don’t like independent anything.’
‘I can imagine. That’s why it’s so important James continues to expand the group of IMPs.’
‘I think you’ll find he’s happy as he is.’
‘Yes, he does strike me as an extremely contented man. I’m sure much of that is because of you.’
Here we go again, thought Celeste, now well experienced in anticipating the probable course of the conversation. ‘Will the word “meditation” be included in your next sentence?’ she enquired mildly.
‘None of my business,’ chuckled Doreen. ‘What you decide to do in private is up to you. I personally like to have my husband suck tinned peach slices from between my toes, but then I live in Chipping Sodbury. We like to live life on the wild side down there. I guess in principle, it’s no different. Uses a lot less rope, of course,’ she added thoughtfully.
‘I’ve always found rope to be useful in any situation. I recommend it to you.’
‘A girl should always play to her strengths,’ observed Doreen. Her instincts were not wrong. Celeste Timbrill was a compassionate, strong-willed and consummately capable woman. Fearless, too. It took guts to attack two armed burglars. Admittedly, it was Bertie who’d done the most damage that night, but reports in the press had praised her courage in taking on Pritchard and Coberley.
And then there was her hair!
The hair confirmed Celeste’s importance to the Sisterhood. It seemed unbelievable, but there was no doubt in Doreen’s mind that future global stability depended entirely on the colour of Celeste Timbrill’s hair. Time to draw her in. Delicately. This needed careful handling.
‘The changes James has forced at Westminster are impressive. He’s always cropping up on the news. What’s happened in Gloucester is spreading. His new ideas of fully inclusive politics have struck a chord. Have you noticed ordinary people are beginning to stir all over the country?’
‘Oh, yes. James finds it deeply rewarding. You should see what turns up every morning in his email inbox. His poor fingers are wearing away.’
‘I don’t know much about these things, but I would imagine there are plenty of characters intent on stopping him.’
‘My husband is a determined man,’ said Celeste neutrally. Now then, what’s this Doreen angling after?
‘If organised properly under his leadership, I can see a dramatic shift in power coming. There’s a change in the air, Celeste, and it’s being driven by an awakening electorate.’
‘Our conversation suddenly seems to have veered away from kittens and embroidery,’ observed Celeste carefully. ‘Why is that?’
Around them, the salon had slowly emptied of customers. To Celeste’s surprise, the door was locked, the closed sign put up. The other members of staff quietly melted away, leaving her alone with this intriguing woman.
‘I’m afraid I have to press you on this, Celeste. The immediate future of this country is in peril. Politically, the way forward is through James, but there’s a lot of people in the establishment who’d be quite content to see him fail.’
‘I’m sorry, Doreen, but you’ve lost me. Terry usually chats about celebrities and holidays.’
‘James can do his bit in London, but he’s going to have to be a lot more careful.’
‘Meaning?’ Celeste’s tone of voice betrayed her sudden caution. What was going on?
Doreen paused from her cutting. ‘I know about the attack on your husband,’ she said softly. ‘I’m so sorry he was hurt.’
Celeste stiffened. She stared at Doreen for a long time. ‘Discounting my husband telling you, and I know he hasn’t, there are only two ways you could have known about that. Either you’re working for those people who are attempting to corrupt James – and I warn you, I will take a very dim view if you are – or …’
‘Her name is Alice.’
‘Ah. The Bag Lady.’
‘She wasn’t always like that. I know her well. Alice suffers from delusional paranoia. In a way, her condition is my fault. She was, once, an employee of mine.’
‘I didn’t realise hairdressing was such a dangerous profession.’
‘It’s normally just about the most benign job in the world, but I’m not just a hairdresser.’
‘Really? I wonder what gave me a clue as to that,’ said Celeste with more sarcasm than intended. Well, Wilf had been staying for a while now. She was obviously beginning to adopt some of his cynicism.
Doreen sighed sadly. ‘Poor Alice. Her breakdown has haunted me for years. I haven’t heard from her at all until she called last week to tell me of the attack.’
Celeste was struggling. ‘Why would she call you? Why was she there when those men beat up my husband – and why are you here telling me about all this now?’
‘Those are three very good questions. Fortunately, they’re also simple to answer.’
‘Well, Doreen, whoever you are, you better start talking now or I’m off, locked door or not.’
‘Celeste Timbrill, you and I both know you’re not going anywhere until I’ve finished your hair. No woman would willingly walk out of a salon half-cut on one side,’ said Doreen firmly. ‘Think of the ignominy!’
Celeste pursed her lips. ‘Yeah, that’s true – you’ve got me there. Captive to my own vanity.’
‘Likewise,’ muttered Doreen, waving at her headscarf. ‘Still, at least now I’ve got the time to answer your questions. Firstly, Alice called me because she knows of my interest in you and your husband, and by extension, Bertie. Like you, I regard him as an equal member of your family and the events of the next few weeks may well concern him. I can’t explain why, but it appears he’s got an important part to play in this.
‘Secondly, Alice was there because, unknown to me and entirely of her own initiative – and, I have to say, at great personal cost to herself – she’s been keeping a watch over James for some time now. She may have a few screws loose, but there’s still a first-rate mind stuck under that bobble hat. She understands and values his importance.
‘Thirdly, I’m telling you this now because you’re going to need help. I have some information on the men who orchestrated the attempted corruption of James. They’re wicked, but powerful. They need to be stopped. If they triumph, James will be unable to continue at Westminster and the best chance we’ve had of curbing the malignancy of these dreadful people will be gone. They will gain strength until they become our masters. I don’t think you’ll fancy that and I sure as hell know I don’t.’
‘You don’t strike me as a person intimately acquainted with the subtleties of politics,’ observed Celeste.
‘Like I said, I’ve got two jobs.’
Celeste chewed on her lower lip. This hairdresser was the oddest person she’d met in a long time – and there was some pretty stiff competition in that area – but she was also strangely compelling. There was something about her
that Celeste saw in herself. It was almost as if she and this woman were related in some way, even though Celeste knew she was an only child and had no cousins. Doreen was certainly intelligent. Significantly intelligent, in fact, and she clearly saw the growing conflict at Westminster that she and James had been discussing on and off over the last two years.
But then she’d mentioned Bertie, and that was a mistake. Celeste was zealous in her protection of her beloved. Admittedly, Bertie had played an unwitting but vital part in the downfall of the last government, but in the end he was just a macaw and had simply been responding to an unlikely series of coincidences. She’d done everything in her power since to give him as stable, quiet and uneventful a home life as possible. He was a pet, and yet here was this obviously serious woman telling her quite openly that it appeared he was about to play a vital role in some new adventure. As she was herself. Celeste did not court vital roles in new adventures. She actively avoided them, yet deep down, buried far below many layers of maturity and sensibility, there still lurked the little girl who’d plotted Martin Shufflebottom’s downfall, who’d lived in Brazil and ridden river boats through teeming jungles, and who’d stood in her jim-jams and whipped the living crap out of two black-clad burglars – and enjoyed it!
Something tugged at her. A seductive finger beckoned. Oh, how it beckoned. She stared with intense concentration at the reflection in the mirror. Doreen continued patting, preening and pampering, combing gently, snipping here and there. She seemed fascinated by Celeste’s glorious copper hair, almost as if she couldn’t resist running her fingers through the long wavy tresses, and was seemingly oblivious to the scrutiny.
‘So tell me, who are you, Doreen?’ Celeste asked finally. ‘Who exactly are you?’
‘I’m Gaia,’ came the simple reply. ‘The Protector. I’m the Supreme Goddess of the Sisterhood of Helen, Defender of Knowledge and Mother of Blessed Lycia.
‘Sounds impressive? It should do – I control this bloody ridiculous planet!’
Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World Page 10