by Hayley Long
‘But you’re the one who brought the subject up,’ said Jean Stingecombe with a small smile. And then she pushed a mug of tea into my hands. ‘So where are we gonna go from here?’ she asked.
I looked at the mug of tea and thought hard about my conversations with Blake.
Finally, I mumbled, ‘I’ll say sorry to Mrs John and I won’t tell anyone else to shut up.’
‘That’s my lovely girl,’ said Jean with a bigger smile. ‘Now you finish your tea and come out when you’re ready. It’s always difficult being the new person at work – but don’t you worry, I’ll sort out Neil and Dilys.’ And then she reached out and patted me softly on my shoulder and went back down to the salon.
I sat still in my chair and clutched my mug of tea. For some reason, I was finding it quite hard not to cry.
Jean Stingecombe is OK, you know. And to be fair to her, she can be as deep as Oscar Wilde when she wants to be. I’m not surprised that she’s Gareth’s mum.
hair MutlLatlON 1
As if by magic, Gareth appeared in the salon a few seconds before my lunch break. He was wearing his red Wales rugby shirt and a chunky grey scarf because it was turning cold. He looked fairly SEXADELIC, if I’m honest. I can’t tell you how pleased I was to see him. I don’t think that Noah could have been any more pleased when he spotted dry land. ‘I’m treating you to whatever you fancy at the Dragon Coffee House,’ Gareth said. ‘I reckon it must be hard work being in here all day with my mum and Dilys.’
Jean laughed and gave Gareth a clip round the ear. Not hard, just friendly. Dilys said, ‘Oooh, Jean, he’s a saucy one, is your Razzy-Gazzy. Who’d have thought that your sweet baby boy would grow up to become such a cheeky great hunk of chunk?’
Gareth’s face turned the same colour as his top. I said, ‘Don’t forget I’ve got Neil here as well, Gaz.’
Neil looked over from where he was blow-drying Mr Pugsley’s rock-a-billy quiff, and winked.
Gareth scowled, put his hand on my shoulder and practically shoved me out of the door.
Over at the Dragon Coffee House, I ordered a double choco-mochaccino (with extra cream and chocolate flakes) and a large plate of chips with ketchup. Gareth ordered a pint of coke, two Dragon burgers with extra cheese, a side order of onion rings and a sausage roll. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll just share your chips, Lottie,’ he said. ‘Coach Jenkins reckons I need to keep myself nice and solid for the field of play but there’s no point overdoing it and eating like a pig, is there?’
If anyone else had ordered all of that and then said this, I’d have thought they were madder than I am but Gareth has a very impressive physical frame and it requires a lot of fuel. Dilys is right about him. He is a hunk of chunk.
Gareth reached into the pocket of his jeans and said, ‘Oh yeah, I’ve got something for you.’ On the table he placed two cinema tickets. ‘Shark Mutilation 3. Tonight. You and me at the Ponty-Carlo Picture House.’ He gave me a shy grin. ‘I can take a hint, Lottie, but next time, if you wanna go and see a film, just ask me.’
‘Thanks, Gareth,’ I said. ‘That’s brilliant.’ And then I added, ‘Um, I don’t suppose I could come and have lunch round at your place tomorrow, could I?’
Gareth pulled a horrified face. ‘You don’t wanna come round my house! My mum and dad will behave all weird and get my baby photos out.’
I laughed. ‘When you put it like that, it does sound terrible, but I sort of told my mum that I was having lunch round yours tomorrow.’
Gareth looked at me as if I’d just said, ‘Isn’t double science amazing?’
‘It was to get me out of doing something even worse,’ I added.
‘Oh, OK then.’ Gareth seemed less confused. ‘I’ll have a word with my mum. She won’t mind. She thinks you’re nice.’ And then he added with a sly grin, ‘And Dilys thinks you’re a sweet honey bunny.’
I squeezed his knee under the table and said, ‘Oh yeah? And what does Neil Adam think?’
Gareth pushed my hand away and said crossly, ‘I don’t care what that scatty womanizer thinks.’
I reached into Gareth’s lap and took hold of his hand. We sat there quietly in the middle of the busy cafe with our hands joined under the table. Suddenly, my heart was beating like the bass line in a Jimi Hendrix record. I cleared my throat and said, ‘Actually, Gareth, there’s something else I wanted to ask you.’
Gareth rolled his eyes and said, ‘Oh, what now? I’ve already said you can come and meet my embarrassing family tomorrow.’
‘No, it’s not that,’ I said. ‘It’s just that we’ve been going out for quite a while now and . . .’
Gareth looked appalled. ‘You’re not going to dump me, are you? Not here. Not now. Not like this. You’ve just invited yourself round my house! I thought you and me were getting on OK!’
‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ I said really quickly. ‘In fact, it’s the opposite. I think we get on so well that I think we should . . .’ I paused. I was starting to feel a bit hot and embarrassed.
‘What?’ said Gareth.
‘Well, maybe, you know . . .’
‘One double choco-mochaccino with extra cream and chocolate flakes,’ said a voice at my shoulder, causing me to jump. ‘One pint of cola. One large plate of chips with ketchup. Two Dragon burgers and one sausage roll.’ The waitress plonked the food down in front of us.
‘I ordered onion rings as well,’ said Gareth anxiously.
‘They’re on their way,’ replied the waitress and then disappeared again.
Gareth picked up one of his burgers and took a huge bite out of it. ‘What were you saying, Biggsy?
I stirred my choco-mochaccino nervously. I was very close to abandoning the subject, if I’m honest. But then I reminded myself that I am sexually frustrated and that piece of personal information was so humiliating that I decided to try again.
‘Well, we like each other, don’t we?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Gareth, picking up his pint of cola.
‘So, maybe we should . . .’
‘One side order of onion rings,’ said the waitress and dumped them down on the table.
‘Ta,’ said Gareth, putting a whole one straight into his mouth.
I took a deep breath. ‘I just think that as we’re approaching our late teens, we—’
‘Er . . . we’re fifteen,’ said Gareth.
‘Yeah, well, we’re both in our mid to late teens and I think that perhaps we should—’
Just then Goose and Spud walked through the door, causing me to shut up abruptly. They took seats at the only empty table, which just happened to be right next to ours, spud called out, ‘Stingey! My main man! What’s going down?’
Gareth said, ‘Spudley! Bruv! How’s it hanging?’
Spud said, ‘Stingey! You legend! What’s the word on the street?’
Gareth said, ‘Spudley! I am the walrus! And you knows it!’
Goose looked at me politely and said, ‘Hi.’
And I said, ‘Hi,’ back.
Then Gareth turned back to me and said, ‘Sorry, Lottie, what was you on about before?’
And this time I did abandon the subject. ‘I was thinking that perhaps we should split this bill,’ I said. ‘Seems only fair, really. ‘
Gareth gave me one of his huge and lovely smiles. ‘You know what, Biggsy? Some of the suggestions you come up with are totally flipping amazing.’ And then he winked at me and I have to admit that it was a much nicer wink than Neil Adam could ever manage.
At half past four, just as I was polishing the last mirror, Jean Stingecombe locked the door of the salon and hung the Closed sign in the window. I put down my bottle of vinegar and scrunched-up ball of newspaper and said, ‘More staff development, is it?’
‘Certainly is, Lottie,’ said Jean. ‘It’s a tight ship we’ve got here. Staff development is crucial to ensure we don’t get left behind in the competitive cut and thrust of the Cardiff hair fashion industry. Go and wash that vinegar off your hands and
we’ll make a start.’
As I walked up to the staffroom, I heard Dilys say, ‘Ooh, whose hair are we developing today, Jee? Neil’s or Lottie’s?’
‘I don’t mind volunteering,’ I heard Neil say. ‘I’ve had this style for a whole week now. I could probably do with a change. Maybe something shorter . . . more brushed forward. Quite sharp around my temples. I think it’s called a Caesar. Yeah, I’m sure it is. You can give me a Caesar if you like.’
Alone in the staffroom, I ran my hands under the tap, not really caring whether I was removing all the newsprint and the smell of vinegar. My mind was elsewhere. Since the episode with Mrs John, the day had been OK but the memory of my pole-dancing-related outburst was still a bit raw. I knew I’d shown myself up and I wanted to put things right. More than anything, I wanted to show Jean that I wasn’t highly strung. Drying my hands quickly on my culottes, I took a deep breath and returned to the salon. Neil was already taking up his position in the demonstration chair.
‘It’s all right, Neil,’ I said. ‘You did it last week. It’s my turn.’
Neil shrugged and stood up.
Dilys said, ‘Oooh, what are we going to do with Lottie’s hair, Jee? A shaggy perm?’
Jean Stingecombe looked a little doubtful. ‘Are you absolutely sure you want to do this, Lottie?’ she said. ‘Neil has already offered and it does require a certain spirit of adventure to volunteer for a restyle.’
I sat down in the demonstration chair. ‘I’ve got a spirit of adventure,’ I said, suddenly feeling quite reckless. ‘Do whatever you like.’ And then I added, ‘But not a shaggy perm, though.’
Jean smiled. ‘OK then. I won’t do anything too drastic this time and then, if you like, we could do something a bit more radical another day.’
And then she began snipping and combing and curling my hair, and while she did all this, she sang ‘Yoo-hoo make me feeeeel, yoo-hoo make me feeeeel, yoo-hoo make me feeeeeeeel like an act-u-al wo-man,’ along to the song which was coming out of the salon’s speakers and was, in fact, almost always coming out of the salon’s speakers.
And when she’d finished, I looked like this:
I sat very still in the demonstration chair and looked at myself in the mirror.
‘What do you think?’ said Jean.
I swallowed hard and counted to twenty in my head. My forehead had gone very sweaty. Finally, I said, ‘Umm, I think it makes me look quite a lot older.’
It did as well. I looked at least sixty.
Dilys said, ‘Oooh Lottie, you look just like a young Queen Elizabeth.’
I almost screamed, ‘No, I don’t. I look just like an old Queen Elizabeth!’ But I didn’t. Because I’m not highly strung.
Jean beamed and said, ‘Didn’t I say I make my clients look like royalty? What do you think, Neily?’
Neil growled at me and said, ‘Hold me back, you cheeky regal temptress.’
Jean said, ‘Less of that kind of talk in here please, Neil. It’s not appropriate for the workplace – and don’t let my Gazzy hear you talking like that. Now, Lottie, it’s a very classic style I’ve given you. Very chic and very feminine. But if it’s not quite to your liking, you only need to give it a couple of washes and all those ridges and curls will soon disappear.’
I swallowed again and said, ‘Thanks, Jean. I like it. I do. It’s nice.’
Jean looked chuffed to bits.
Before my mind had time to change direction, I collected my bag from the staffroom and waved goodbye to everyone. They waved back and I left the salon without giving a single hint of the battle which had just taken place within me. Even writing about it now makes me feel quite proud. Because, as I’d sat rigid in that chair and contemplated the full horror of my queenly hairdo, I’d almost lost it. A tidal wave had threatened my balance. I’d felt the surfboard wobble perilously beneath me and I’d been a single nanosecond away from pitching head first into the deadly whirlpools of chaos.
But I hadn’t. I’d seen that tidal wave coming and surfed right over the top of it.
shark MutlLatlON 3
The Ponty-Carlo Picture House has been in Whitchurch for as long as I can remember. In fact, it’s been in Whitchurch for as long as my mum can remember too. There is only one screen – which is framed by gigantic dirty orange curtains – and the rows of seats are so tightly packed together that it’s quite normal to come out after the film with bumps and bruises on your knees. It’s also fairly common to come out with chewing gum stuck to the backside of your trousers. On rainy days, the Ponty-Carlo smells of two hundred pairs of wet trainers. On dry days, it just smells of feet. Sometimes the man who works in the projector room falls asleep and lets the film slip upwards so that all the actors’ and actresses’ heads are missing and the bottom half of the screen is just a blinding band of white light. When this happens, we all stamp our feet on the floor and hammer on the back of the chair in front of us and shout and scream until the projector man wakes up and puts it right again. All my life, Pat Mumble has sold us choc ices there. Pat Mumble sold choc ices to my mum when she was a girl too. We know her name is Pat because it says so on her name badge. She’s earned the surname Mumble because her mouth is always full of sweets whenever she speaks to us and all we can ever hear is, ‘Mumble mumble mumble.’ It’s fair to say that the Ponty-Carlo is not the most glamorous cinema in Cardiff but everybody loves it because it’s cheap. This is where Gareth took me to see Shark Mutilation 3 and this is where I tried, once more, to raise the subject of it.
For once, it didn’t take me long to get ready. My queenly hairdo hadn’t left me with many options. I whacked on some lipstick, chucked on some mascara, smudged on a bit of glittery eye shadow and changed into my favourite flowery jumper dress, hot pants and stripy tights. Then, knowing that I had a full-blown hair crisis on my hands and needing to deal with the problem sensibly and efficiently, I added my final accessory.
It wasn’t ideal and the hat, which had once belonged to my dad, was a bit too big but it was the only one I could find. And it was still better than going out looking like my nan.
When I went downstairs, my mum said, ‘Ooh, very glamorous!’
I said, ‘Shut up. You’re beginning to sound like Dilys at work.’
My mum said, ‘Will you stop telling people to shut up! It’s so rude.’
Ruthie, who was sitting on the sofa practically in Michel’s lap, whistled and said, ‘Wow! Doesn’t my little brother look cute!’
Ruthie can be all right sometimes – when she’s asleep or in Aberystwyth – but mostly, she’s just a pathetic fish.
Michel said, ‘You English girls have such a strange sense of fashion.’
‘WE’RE NOT ENGLISH,’ said me, Ruthie and my mum all at once. ‘WE’RE WELSH!’
Michel looked deeply confused and a little bit alarmed. He didn’t say anything after that.
Just then the doorbell rang and I went to answer it. It was Gareth. He had changed into his bright yellow Welsh away shirt which he was wearing with his chunky grey scarf and jeans. He looked absolutely SEXALICIOUS!
When he saw me he said, ‘Wow, Lottie! Cool bobble hat! Did my mum mess up your hair?’
This is why I like him so much. Unlike everyone else in the world, me and Gareth Stingeconibe are on completely the same wavelength.
After a short walk in the rain, we arrived at the Ponty-Carlo. There was already a large queue outside. Plainly, the people of Cardiff like to see heads popping during a shark attack. Gareth waved his tickets proudly and said, ‘Pre-purchased especially for the babe in the bobble hat. No need to queue. We can just go straight in and choose the best seats.’
I held Gareth’s hand and walked with him into the glittery entrance foyer. As we jumped the queue, I heard someone shout, ‘Look at Potty Lottie! She’s got a tea cosy on her head!’
I turned round and saw Lee Fogel sneering at me. He was with Samantha Morgan. I was just about to yell back at him when I noticed that Samantha had tugged on Lee’s arm and
was saying something into his ear. She looked quite cross. I think they were arguing again. Gareth put his arm around me and said, ‘Ignore him, Lottie. Lee Fogel has got biscuits inside his head instead of brains.’
This is another reason why I like Gareth so much.
Inside the foyer, Pat Mumble said, ‘Mumble mumble mumble,’ and ripped our tickets in two. Gareth bought a giant bucket of toffee popcorn and an extra large cola for each of us and one small bag of chocolate peanuts to share. ‘I’ll get you a choc ice in the interval,’ he said. ‘But it’s good to have something to keep us going until then.’
This reminds me of another thing I like about the Ponty-Carlo. It’s the only cinema I’ve ever been to which has an interval. First it shows some rubbish local adverts, then it shows a short film which always makes no sense and looks as if it’s been filmed using a mobile phone and some actors from a local drama club, and then, after an interval where we all queue up to buy a choc ice from Pat Mumble, we get to see ’the main feature’.
‘Did Coach Jenkins tell you that you need to eat a lot of sugary stuff?’ I said to Gareth as I took hold of my bucket of popcorn, which just happened to be about the same size as my entire head.
Gareth looked impressed. ‘Yeah, he did actually. How did you know that?’
‘Just a hunch,’ I said.
Once inside the cinema, I saw that we were nearly the first to take our seats. Gareth was about to head straight for the front row, when I pulled him back by the arm. He turned round with a look of surprise. ‘Quick,’ he said. ‘We should nab a couple of seats right down the front before everyone else comes in. I love it in the front row. It’s immense. Everything looks so huge that it makes your head spin.’
‘Yes, but it’s not very . . .’ I hesitated.
‘Not very what?’ asked Gareth, licking cola off the lid of his drink container.
‘Romantic,’ I said.
‘Oh, right!’ Gareth stopped licking the lid of his drink and grinned. ‘Seats at the very back then, is it?’