by Hayley Long
‘But—’
‘Gareth’s mum wants someone like you to help out with a few odd jobs in the salon on a Saturday. And Gareth obviously trusts you to do a good job. And so do I.’
And then she gave me a kiss right in the middle of my forehead and I said, ‘Urrgghhh, Mum, get off me, you weirdo!’ But actually I was feeling very happy indeed and I ran up the stairs two at a time so that I could switch on my computer and write it all up in my Emotion Notepad Document. And that’s what I’ve been doing pretty much ever since. But now I’m going to bed because it’s already twenty past one tomorrow morning and I’m as sleepy as a chinchilla.
the Jean GeNIe
I am a very interesting and complex character. I am a daughter, a sister, a girlfriend, a schoolgirl, a writer, a teenager, an artist, a friend, a poet, a Welsh person, a patient, a pain, a nutcase, a potato face, an animal lover, a laugh, an Egyptian trendsetter, a freethinker AND an individual.
I am also getting increasingly fed up with the continuing disloyal behaviour of my so-called best friend Goose, but I’ll bin that thought for the moment and concentrate instead on a much more positive and exciting piece of news.
And that positive and exciting piece of news is this: in addition to all the above, I am now a proud employee of the Jean Genie hairdressing establishment. I even have my own official badge.
Jean Stingecombe, my new manageress and future mother-in-law, made it for me using a little plastic machine which looked like it was probably invented by a Victorian. It’s not the most brilliant badge I’ve ever seen but, to be honest, I don’t care. I’ve never been given a name badge before and I think my job title sounds fairly sophisticated.
Until today, I’d never actually met Gareth’s mum. So far, Gareth has always come over to my house because he says his parents would hang around us and embarrass him if we went to his. Gareth says that they sometimes fuss around him too much because he doesn’t have any brothers or sisters to distract them. Gareth says that he is a fils unique. He doesn’t like being called an only child because it makes him sound lonely whereas fils unique makes him sound exotic and special. I can’t honestly agree that I think Gareth is exotic but I do think he is fairly special. Incidentally, I sometimes feel that I can understand how it must feel to be a fils unique because although I have a brother and a sister neither of them live at home with me. My five-year-old brother lives with my dad and his new wife, Sally, in Wrexham. Technically, he is my half-brother and he is called Caradoc. I’ve also got a sister called Ruthie who is away at university. She is actually twenty but she acts as if she’s five.
When I went for my interview, straight after school today, I was feeling a bit stressed out and nervous. To be fair, it’s not easy meeting your future mother-in-law and being cross-examined for a job all at the same time. I was really concerned in case she thought I was a loser. But Jean Stingecombe is very nice. For an older person, she still has a reasonably pretty face and she wears her scissors in a leather holster around her waist which makes her look quite cool. I’m not at all surprised that she is nice because she is Gareth’s mum and Gareth is EXTREMELY nice and has very muscular and colossal thighs. As far as I can tell, Jean’s thighs look quite tiny, but, then again, it’s hard to judge because when I saw her she was wearing culottes. I’ve always been aware of the existence of culottes because occasionally I get dragged out shopping with my mum and she forces me to wait around like a lemon while she tries on EVERY SINGLE ITEM in a shop called Vogue Marché. Despite dropping French at the end of Year 9, I happen to speak enough of it to know that Vogue Marché means Fashion Market.11 Vogue Marché is jam-packed with culottes and cords and batwing jumpers and many other blatantly dodgy clothing articles. Even so, I’ve never seen anyone actually wearing culottes in public. I have to admit that they did detract from Jean’s coolness a little bit. Maybe when me and Jean know each other a bit better, I’ll say something to her.
Despite the culottes, Jean Stingecombe is a very friendly and professional person and she runs a tight ship at The Jean Genie hairdressing salon. After we’d said hello to each other, she said, ‘I run a tight ship here, Lottie. I might not be Vidal Sassoon or Nicky Clarke but them names don’t mean nothing to my customers. In this patch of Cardiff, it’s my name that people trust. I’ve got the responsibility of running the top hair salon in the whole of Whitchurch village. People come in here looking tired and dowdy and they walk out of my door feeling like minor royalty. It’s a wonderful way to earn a living but it’s also a lot of pressure. To cope with that pressure, I need the support of an exceptional team. People I can rely on. People with a passion for customer care. People with a sense of shared responsibility. Do you have what it takes to be a part of my team, Lottie?’
I nodded and said yes. I didn’t even have to think about it. For starters, I really need the extra cash because hair dye does not come cheap and, for seconds, I’m not that freaked out by the responsibility of working at Whitchurch’s top hair salon. It’s the only one there is. And it’s a little bit cluttered and scruffy, to tell the truth. And it smells of perm solution.
Jean Stingecombe said, ‘Good answer.’ Then she said, ‘And how do you feel about talking to members of the general public? You’ll have a lot of face-to-face contact as well as telephone communication to deal with.’
I hesitated and then I said, ‘I’ll smile and be polite.’ And then I hesitated again, before adding, ‘Unless I’m on the phone – in which case, I’ll just be polite.’
Jean said, ‘You should still smile even if you’re talking on the phone. A smile is a multi-sensual thing. It’s not just visual. You can feel a smile and you can hear it too, my lovely. Didn’t you know that?’
I went a bit red and tried to think of something good to say. Fortunately, the wise words of Mr Wood popped into my head. ‘It’s not olfactory, though,’ I said. ‘You can’t smell a smile.’
Jean looked a bit surprised and then she said, ‘Er . . . no. You can’t. There’s some truth in that.’
I felt quite pleased. I’d be prepared to bet all the money in the world that Jean Stingecombe didn’t actually know what ‘olfactory’ meant.
‘And how about punctuality, Lottie?’ said Jean, once she’d recovered from the shock of my gargantuan vocabulary. ‘Can I rely on you to arrive at my salon on time?’
I thought about this for a second and then I said, ‘In my opinion, to be early is to be on time, to be on time is to be late and to be late is unacceptable.’
This is something I once got told when I was working as a Saturday Sales Assistant in a shoe shop. I think it’s possibly the most tragic thing that anyone has ever said to me in my whole life. It’s worth remembering though.
Jean Stingecombe looked impressed and nodded enthusiastically. ‘That’s a wonderful answer, Lottie. Now just one final question – and it’s a very important one. What are you like at making tea?’
I smiled a big multi-sensual smile and said, ‘Brilliant. My mum says I probably make the best cup of tea in the whole of Wales.’
This is true. I make perfect tea. Not too strong. Not too weak. Next time I see Blake, I will tell him that I’ve remembered something else that I’m good at.
In comparison, my older sister Ruthie is a completely rubbish tea maker. Fortunately, she is mostly in Aberystwyth so we don’t have to drink her manky tea very often.
Jean Stingecombe gave me a big multi-sensual smile back and said, ‘Well, Lottie, the job’s yours, my lovely. You can start this Saturday.’ And then she touched my arm and said, ‘I’m really looking forward to working with you. I’ve heard so much about you from my Gazzy. He’s pleased as punch about you, love. He’s never had a girlfriend before.’
I went redder than a rugby player and wondered what kind of stuff Gareth had been saying about me to his mum. I really hope he never told her what I said about getting a spike put through my lip because it wasn’t actually true anyway and I wouldn’t want her to get the wrong idea about me. I reall
y hope he never told her about my mental problems either.
While I was thinking all this, Jean patted my arm again and said, ‘Before you go, I’d just like to introduce you to Dilys. As Junior Stylist, Dilys is a very important member of the crew. I’m the salon’s Senior Stylist and the other team member is Neil. He only started with us a couple of weeks ago and he’s our Trainee Stylist. Unfortunately, I can’t introduce you to him now because it’s his day at college.’
She opened a small door at the back of the salon and called upward, ‘Dil . . . I know it’s your tea break, love, but come and say hello to Lottie. She’s going to be our new Salon Assistant!’
I stood there awkwardly and listened as the sound of footsteps clomped about above my head. Jean Stingecombe picked up a broom and began to sweep random silver curls into a corner and as she did, she wiggled her bottom and sang something like, ‘Yoo-hoo make me feeeeel, yoo-hoo make me feeeeel, yoo-hoo make me feeeeeeeel like an act-u-al wo-man,’ along to a putrid soppy love song which was coming from a small speaker mounted on the wall. I chewed my fingernails and felt a bit embarrassed and wished Dilys would hurry up. A moment later, a face popped through the doorway and said, ‘Oooh! So you’re Gazzy’s girlfriend! Jean’s been telling me all about you. Lovely to have you join our team. We’ve got a tight little ship here – oh, I’m Dilys by the way.’
My entire face turned rhubarb-red again and I made a stupid squeaky sound that was meant to mean ‘hello’.
In my defence, I was caught a little off guard. Dilys, the Junior Stylist, didn’t really match my idea of what a Junior Stylist might look like. Most people I’ve seen who get jobs in hair salons have amazing hairstyles and wear chic black clothes and look so cutting edge that they should be hanging in the Tate Modern. Whereas Dilys was like this:
She looked more like a Senior Citizen than a Junior Stylist.
She was wearing culottes too. And a dodgy black Tshirt with silver sequins on it. She must have known what I was thinking because she winked at me and said, ‘It’s never too late to teach this old dog some new tricks,’ and then she popped a mint humbug into her mouth and started to laugh.
I squeaked again and decided that it wasn’t even worth trying to guess what Neil the Trainee Stylist would look like. Although it seemed pretty safe to assume that he’d be at least seventy.
‘Is there anything I need to bring with me on Saturday?’ I asked – because I’ve always been told that it’s good to ask at least one question yourself when you have an interview.
Jean Stingecombe leaned on her broom and beamed back at me. ‘Just a great big smile and a bag full of confidence.’ And then she made me my funny name badge and, with a big rush of relief, I said goodbye and left.
what I saw whILe I was UPsiDE DOwN
To my surprise, Gareth was waiting for me outside the salon. He’d come straight from rugby practice and hadn’t bothered to get changed out of his dirty kit. I don’t mind admitting that my stomach went a bit funny when I saw him. In a good way, though. Not in a food poisoning kind of way. He was leaning against a lamp post a little further down the street and trying to balance a rugby ball on his head. When he saw me, he let the ball drop into his hands and shouted, ‘Biggsy! Over here.’
I walked over to him and kissed him on the side of his face. His skin felt slightly prickly next to my lips. For some reason, this made my stomach go even funnier. In fact, my insides were hopping about so much I’m surprised that they didn’t just hop right out of me and start jumping around on the pavement. I got a bit flustered then so I said, ‘Gareth, do you have to call me Biggsy? It doesn’t make me feel very sexy, actually.’ And then I noticed that he’d got something weird stuck to the bridge of his nose and added, ‘What’s that thing on your face?’
Gareth looked confused. ‘But yesterday you said you didn’t want me to treat you like a sex object.’ And then he said, ‘Nasal strips. Coach Jenkins says I should try to wear them as often as possible to open up my airways. He reckons it’ll help me get more oxygen to the tactical part of my brain and, thereby, enhance my overall performance on the field of play.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘But it would be nice if you’d make me feel like an actual woman once in a while.’ And then I added, ‘I’m not being funny, Gareth, but those nose plasters make you look slightly odd, thereby being a bit of a turn-off.’
Gareth went really red. ‘OK, Lottie, I’ll call you Lottie. Is that all right with you, Lottie?’
‘That would be ideal,’ I said.
‘But the nasal strips are staying,’ he said firmly. ‘Rugby is not a pastime – it’s a way of life, and I’m gonna do whatever Coach Jenkins reckons will help me get to the top. So you’re just going to have to get used to it, Biggsy.’
And then he gave me a cheeky smile and winked at me in a deliberately suggestive manner.
I pretended his wink had no effect on me and did a big noisy sigh and rolled my eyes upward but secretly I was a bit pleased and ever so slightly erotically charged. I know that this probably isn’t a politically correct and twenty-first-century- feminist-friendly thing to say but I quite like it when Gareth sets his mind to something and won’t let me totally boss him about. There’s no way I’d EVER tell him this though. So instead I just said, ‘Why are you waiting out here? Why didn’t you come into the salon and say hello to your mum like any normal son would?’
Gareth pulled a face. ‘Nah. I’d rather see you out here. To be honest, I’m avoiding Dilys. Last time I went in there, she pinched my bum and told me I was a great big hunk of chunk. I can’t handle that, Lottie. Not from her. So I’m keeping out of her way.’
I laughed in disbelief. ‘Dilys? That sweet old lady?’
Gareth looked serious. ‘I’m telling you, Lottie, she may look sweet but she’s got a filthy mouth on her. And she’s a sex maniac. You be careful working with her. She could be a bad influence.’
I laughed again. I couldn’t help it. I don’t mind admitting that it felt REALLY NICE to be standing out in the street with Gareth, just having a great big noisy public laugh, especially when school hasn’t been all that brilliant recently. Today, I did at least manage to sit through every lesson without going on the mitch – but Mr Thomas had a moan at me for dozing off during double Science12 and Goose still thinks that Samantha Morgan is more wondrously wonderful than Wonder Woman. So hearing that Dilys has got sexual designs on my boyfriend cheered me up no end. I said, ‘Maybe working with Dirty Dilys and your mum is going to be more fun than I thought.’ And then I pinched Gareth’s muddy bottom and asked, ‘Are you gonna walk me home then, you great big hunk of chunk?’
Gareth said, ‘That’s it! I’ve had enough of you, Lottie Biggs.’ And then he lifted me right off the ground and up over his left shoulder so that I was practically upside down and my head was hanging down his back and my feet were wiggling around in mid-air and then he ran with me down the road like that and both of us were laughing and screaming our heads off.
Gareth is extremely strong.
He ran with me all the way down Merthyr Road. I think he thought I was a rugby ball. I was laughing so hard that I could hardly breathe and when I wasn’t laughing, I was shouting, ‘Gareth, put me down, you maniac!’
But actually, I didn’t want him to put me down because it felt really nice having his arms wrapped tightly around my legs and it was also really interesting and funny seeing the world from an upside-down perspective. It’s not a perspective I get to appreciate very often.
We went by:
and then we went by the second-hand record shop called:
and we even went by the shoe shop called:
where I used to work. And the next thing I knew, we were passing the bus stop and we were both still laughing our heads off and then I looked at the bus shelter and I saw this written on it in marker pen:
And suddenly, the upside-down world stopped looking like a funnier and more interesting place and just looked blatantly weird.
I said, ‘G
areth, put me down, will you?’
And Gareth just kept laughing and lumbering along the street, so I said, ‘GARETH, PUT ME DOWN, PLEASE!’ And Gareth must have sensed that I wasn’t laughing any more because, just for once, he let me boss him about and actually did as he was told.
‘What’s up, Biggsy?’ he said, once I was back on my feet.
I walked back to the bus shelter and looked at the graffiti written on the side and this time my eyes were the right way up. It said:
which is exactly what I’d thought it said the first time I read it. I stood there staring at it in surprise and tried to work out what it meant. It definitely said Goose. I only know ONE person called Goose and that person is (allegedly) my best friend. There isn’t anyone else called Goose in my school. As far as I’m aware, there isn’t anyone else called Goose in the whole of Cardiff. It’s possible that Goose is actually the only Goose in the entire country of Wales.13
I turned to Gareth and said, ‘Have you seen this? It says Goose loves Spud.’
Gareth said, ‘So?’
I said, ‘So . . . ? So . . . ? So what does it mean?’
Gareth looked at me as if I were thick. ‘It means that Goose loves Spud,’ he said.
Spud is Gareth’s friend. They play video games and listen to U2 songs together. Spud is quite good-looking. The reason why everyone calls him Spud is because his real name is Edward King which, in reverse, is the name of a famous English potato. The last I knew of anything, Spud was going out with Beca Bowen, who is in my registration group.
I said, ‘How can Goose love Spud? She’d have told me.’