Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

by D. J. Connell

  ‘Volume is essential.’ He stepped back holding a can of hairspray and a comb above Mum’s head. ‘But it’s the finishing touch qui fait la différence.’

  With a flourish, he twisted the top of Mum’s hair into a dramatic spiral and tugged it expertly over her face. There was power and majesty in his movements. My skin erupted with goose pimples. I was looking at an artiste.

  I’d never been inside anything like a Hemi Pacer. It was a fast and flashy Australian Chrysler, the sort of car driven by men who revved the engine outside milk bars and screeched the tyres when the lights turned green. Sandy stopped in front of Jimmy’s flat with a screech and tooted the horn. When the door didn’t open, he tooted again. I began to worry. It wasn’t like Jimmy to be late or inconvenient. When I knocked on the door and he didn’t answer, my worry gave way to panic. Jimmy was one of the reasons I was doing the show in the first place and now he wasn’t even coming with me. Sandy tooted impatiently and I got back in the car. As we pulled away, I felt the icy hand squeeze my heart.

  The Wool Board Convention Centre had been done up for the hair show by a charity called Little Tasmanian Masters. According to a sign on a collection box by the door, it was a Dick Dingle-approved scheme to support young Tasmanians with flair. The foyer was decorated with a huge calico banner painted in bright colours: ‘Big and High, Celebrating Tasmanian Hair’. Along the walls were sculptures made from old junk bearing stickers with fantasy prices. An ugly construction of used drink cans and old toilet-roll dowels was priced at fifty dollars. I looked up and noticed a boy watching me with suspicion. He was one of several boys who had been posted around the room. They were all wearing name badges with ‘ART MONITOR’ printed on them.

  Norman flashed his VIP pass at a monitor called Neil who shooed other boys away officiously as he guided us through the centre. There were more sculptures in the event hall where a television crew was setting up lights and cables. My heart leaped as I stepped over an Abracadabra box with ‘DICK’ stamped on its side. ‘The Prick’ had been scrawled underneath but then crossed out with a marker pen.

  At the backstage door, Norman gave my shoulder a friendly squeeze and ran a professional hand over my hair.

  ‘You’ll do us proud.’

  I swallowed hard and tried not to cry as Neil led Sandy and him away to the VIP dressing room.

  Where was Jimmy?

  I was not only very alone but I was also very hot. The Fair Isle jerkin I’d bought for my television appearance now seemed like a very bad idea. The super-fine wool was doing an excellent job of trapping the nervous heat I was generating. My sweat glands were spurting like shower nozzles but removing the jerkin and baring my T-shirt wasn’t an option. I couldn’t give my father the satisfaction of viewing my bottle tops on television. My hand was damp on the backstage door as I pushed it open. My heart sank.

  The room was bustling with gorgeous young people sporting very big hair. I’d never seen so much fashion or hair gathered in one place. The apprentices were all dressed in tight trousers and shirts with big collars, even the young women. There were no New Romantics but they still looked a thousand times better than stupid Fair Isle Corkle. They were also thinner, busier and more professional than me. All of the competitors had kits like Norman’s and none of the products seemed to have labels. I put my Cobber’s supermarket bag behind my back and kept walking.

  I was desperately searching for a place to hide when someone familiar caught my eye. Relief flooded me. Philippe was standing to one side, talking to a very short man in a very shiny silver suit. The man’s hair was honey blond and sparkled in an unnatural way under the lights. Philippe frowned as I approached and continued talking as if I wasn’t there.

  ‘I don’t style hair, I jizsch it.’ He waved his hands about in an elegant manner. ‘I suppose you’d call it hair topiary. I create living objets with human hair.’

  ‘Can you create a mallard duck?’ I did a little laugh to round off the joke.

  Philippe glared at me and turned back to the man. ‘As I was saying, the bigger and more complex, the better.’

  ‘Like a nativity scene.’ I was being even funnier. ‘The Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost and all that.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake!’ Philippe didn’t bother to look at me. His focus was on the man. ‘Tasmania is ready for the Big and High. It’s been ready for a long, long time.’

  ‘You could add the Three Kings with underarm hair, ha ha.’

  ‘Shut up! Can’t you see that I’m trying to talk to Dick!’

  The honey-blond man turned to me and I felt the icy hand tighten around my heart. It was Dick Dingle, only thirty per cent shorter and twenty years older than his television version. His watery eyes moved over my body, taking in my T-shirt and woollen jerkin, stonewashed jeans and oxblood Doc Marten boots. He turned away with a look of disinterest and patted Philippe on the shoulder in a fatherly manner.

  ‘I must mingle.’ He winked. ‘Can’t have them accusing me of favouritism.’

  Sweating fiercely, I stumbled away and found a dark corner to the side of the stage. I sat down on a Tasmanian apple box and tried to make myself as small as possible. For years I’d dreamed of meeting Dick Dingle and now I’d ruined everything. It didn’t matter that he was in his twilight years and had suspicious hair. He was still Tasmania’s favourite son. I closed my eyes and willed Jimmy to arrive. I couldn’t do the show without him.

  The hall filled but I stayed hidden. I could hear people taking their seats and activity on the stage. A microphone screeched and the hall became quiet. The curtains opened and lights fell on ten very professional-looking contestants standing behind ten seated volunteers. Across the stage, I could see Norman and the three other judges. No one could see me in the shadows but I could see everything except the audience. I thought of Jimmy and wondered if he was out there somewhere. Dick Dingle was standing centre stage and opened his arms in welcome. Someone cheered. He said something, people laughed and he walked off. A gong sounded and the stylists got to work.

  Nothing at the Curl Up and Dye had prepared me for the show. The apprentices moved with the precision and grace of real experts. They used products I didn’t recognise and did things with hair I’d never imagined. The gong sounded and the contestants lifted their hands away. I saw Dick Dingle come back on stage but my ears were buzzing and I didn’t hear what he said. The curtains closed and then opened again. The gong sounded and the process was repeated. I stayed seated in the sauna of my jerkin and tried not to breathe. I couldn’t compete. Why had I listened to Dot and Jimmy Budge? The Hog was a pig of an idea.

  ‘So this is where you got to.’ Dot laid a warm hand on my shoulder. ‘I’ve been looking for you for half an hour. It’s the third round. You’re up next.’

  ‘I can’t go through with it, Dot.’

  ‘Of course you can, love. It’s just stage nerves.’ She lit a Pall Mall menthol and slipped it between my fingers. ‘Have a fag. It’ll do you the world of good.’

  ‘I’ll let you down. I’ll let everyone down.’

  ‘You can’t let me down, love.’ She lit another cigarette for herself.

  ‘But all the other apprentices are so…’ I was about to say thin but changed my mind. ‘…professional.’

  ‘Smoke and mirrors, love. Most of them wouldn’t know a kiss curl from a dingo’s tail.’ Dot closed her eyes and took a meaningful drag on her cigarette. ‘To be a real dry stylist, you’ve got to have a feel for hair. You’ve got to have heart. And you’ve got plenty of that, love.’

  ‘But everyone’s so good.’

  ‘Like I said, smoke and mirrors.’ Dot’s hand slipped under my armpit. With a powerful yank, she pulled me to my feet. ‘Stay with the hair, love. Stay with the hair. I’ll be watching you.’

  Once I’d taken my place behind the volunteer, there was no turning back. If only my body would cool down and my hands would stop shaking. When the curtains opened I realised that I couldn’t see the faces of the audien
ce for the stage lights. What I could see was the Abracadabra cameraman. He was sitting on a high swivel chair in front of the stage with the lens focused on us.

  Dick Dingle came and left. The gong sounded and the competitors got to work, busily swishing and rustling all around me. I could hear them opening containers and spraying hair with water but my arms stayed frozen at my sides. A blow-dryer whirred to life beside me. I knew I shouldn’t look but my head turned in spite of myself. My heart sank. Philippe had been positioned two metres from me. He appeared to have his own spotlight and was working furiously on his volunteer. She noticed me staring and rolled her eyes. It was the girl from the Brush Off.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ My volunteer had twisted in her seat and was frowning up at me. Her name badge said ‘DONNA’. She swirled her hand impatiently like a movie director and turned back to face the audience. ‘The cameras are rolling.’

  Cameras. I forced my arms away from my sides then stopped with my hands in mid-air. Donna’s dull sandy hair was so thin I could see the freckles on her scalp. I took a comb from my pocket and ran it through, meeting no resistance.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ Donna clicked her fingers.

  All around us, hair was progressing, up and out. Philippe’s volunteer already had the makings of a Mary Antoinette. Squinting, I looked out over the audience. My eye caught a familiar tower of hair. Dot was sitting in the front row. Stay with the hair.

  I gripped the can of Cobber’s and gave the base of Donna’s hair a blast, simultaneously sweeping it up with the comb. Donna shuddered. Her hair wobbled and sagged. I gave it another jet and repeated the process, willing the hair to absorb air and take flight. It wavered as if unsure, then it dropped back like a cowboy dying in slow motion. Slipping the comb into my pocket, I lifted the hair with my free hand, bombarding the shafts with hair spray and fluffing rapidly with my fingertips. The hair resisted, rose, and then resisted again. It wavered, stopped, then it began to stiffen. Lift off!

  Working feverishly with the spray can, I glued the foundations solid and began building higher, layering individual hair upon hair and pumping air into the structure with whisking motions. I finished one can of hairspray and took another from the economy six-pack. I was working in a cloud of spray, sweating like a draught horse. I’d never used so much hairspray in my life but Donna’s hair was like a mirage. I could hardly see it let alone feel any texture between my fingers. I went through a third can and then a fourth.

  ‘Two minutes!’

  Sweat pumped from my armpits. My hands were a blur as I flicked my fingers upward. Instead of closing the hair into a classic Hog, I sculpted it into tongues, teasing them away from the main body of hair like lotus petals. My back was to the audience and I was facing Donna when she moaned.

  ‘I feel funny.’ She coughed weakly. ‘It’s the spray.’

  I caught her by the chin as her head flopped forward. Her pupils were dilated and her mouth hung open. She moaned again and closed her eyes. I had one trick up my sleeve, a hockey player’s trick I’d learned from Carmel. My fingers grasped a wedge of Donna’s upper arm fat. I pinched hard.

  ‘Fuck!’ Donna sat up and blinked.

  I had no time to lose. I attacked the top of her hair with rapid staccato movements, tweaking the ends into ever finer points to create the illusion of flames.

  The gong sounded and I removed my hands, standing back for the first time to view the hairstyle in its entirety. Donna’s hair was magnificent, a huge transparent construction that rose from her scalp to burst open like a gingery bonfire. I was still gazing at it in wonder when Dick Dingle made his way over from the judging panel.

  The microphone screeched. As he opened his mouth to speak, someone sneezed violently. I turned to see Philippe’s volunteer with a hand over her nose and mouth. Her hair, a big bulbous construction, was shaking violently. Philippe gasped as a large strand peeled off and fell away. Another fell away, then another. The hairdo was deconstructing before his eyes. Within seconds, the girl’s head looked like the denuded top of a palm tree.

  The microphone screeched. I looked back to Dick Dingle.

  ‘Winner of round three, Julian Corker.’

  My knees felt as if they were going to fold from under me. I vaguely heard the audience break into applause and someone whistle. My heart suddenly felt too big for my chest. I smiled nervously as the television camera swivelled in my direction.

  The microphone screeched again.

  ‘As host of the show and patron of Little Tasmanian Masters, I’m obliged to make an executive decision.’ Dick Dingle paused to give his announcement more authority. ‘In light of the unforeseen force majeure, Philippe Singer will be permitted to go forward to the finals.’

  ‘That’s Singeur.’ Philippe’s shriek rang out over the hall.

  Someone shouted from the judging panel. A child started crying. The audience became restless. Dick Dingle motioned for calm.

  ‘We’ll now take a break for refreshments. All proceeds from the beverages and cakes will go toward the Little Tasmanian Masters fund. Don’t let those kids down, people! See you all back here in thirty minutes for the finals.’

  I walked off the stage feeling as if I was wearing cushion platforms. My jerkin was so wet my armpits squelched but I didn’t care what I looked like any more. I’d won the semi-finals! The victory would’ve been even sweeter if Jimmy were with me.

  Philippe was lathering his hands in one of the sinks when I entered the washroom. I looked around for some soap. My hands were sticky from hairspray and sweat.

  ‘Well, surprise, surprise.’ Philippe nodded in a complimentary way.

  ‘Thanks, Phil.’

  I was still looking for soap when Philippe removed a plastic soap dispenser from his kit and placed it on the sink ledge. It was a gesture of fellowship like the passing of a peace pipe. I nodded and helped myself, rubbing the liquid into froth in my hands. Philippe put the dispenser back in his kit and left the washroom without saying anything.

  I put my hands under the tap and immediately felt my skin begin to tingle.

  36

  Something was very wrong. The tingle had become an itch and the skin of my hands was coming out in pink blotches.

  ‘I shouldn’t have favourites but I know star quality when I see it!’

  My chest swelled at the sound of that golden voice I knew so well. I forgot about the state of my hands and glanced up at the mirror, expecting to see the face of Tasmanian television staring back at me. Instead I found myself looking at its back. Dick Dingle was standing outside the door with an arm around Philippe’s shoulders.

  ‘You’re only human, Dick.’

  ‘And a human gets lonely at the top.’

  ‘You’re an influential Tasmanian. Whatever you say, goes.’

  ‘And I say you look very good in those trousers.’

  ‘I look even better out of them.’

  Dick Dingle let out his signature television chortle. His hand slipped down Philippe’s back and gave his bum a squeeze. Philippe squealed in a girly way. As they moved off, Dick Dingle gave a low oily laugh.

  I looked back down at my hands. They were an unnatural pink and starting to swell. I blew on them to cool the hot prickliness and hurried out of the washroom in the opposite direction to Dick Dingle and Philippe. The route took me through the curtains and brought me back out on stage. I arrived at the edge of the stage but couldn’t find any steps. The only way on to the floor of the hall was to jump. I came down sideways, hitting a pile of coconut shells with my elbow. It collapsed with a loud clatter. A child cried out.

  ‘A hairdresser just vandalised my coconut sculpture!’

  I heard busy footsteps and the excited voices of children but I was stuck on my elbows and knees and couldn’t get up. A hand snaked under my armpit and pulled.

  ‘What’s wrong with your hands?’

  The sound of Jimmy’s voice made me feel like crying. All I wanted to do was fall into his arms. Instead
I drew back from him.

  ‘What do you care?’

  ‘A lot probably.’

  Jimmy grabbed me by the forearms and frowned at my swollen hands. They were corn-beef pink and had the appearance of inflated rubber gloves. Blisters were forming around the nails.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Ulverston. Dad’s in hospital. It’s fancier’s lung.’ Jimmy’s eyes misted. ‘I tried to call but you’d already left.’

  ‘Oh, Jimmy.’

  ‘Dad knew the odds.’

  ‘But he’s not going to die?’ Mr Budge had always been nice to me. Jimmy would be an orphan without him.

  ‘They’ve put him in an iron lung.’

  ‘That’s a very unattractive machine.’

  ‘It’s keeping him alive.’ Jimmy shook his head. ‘Let’s get these hands sorted. We can talk about Dad later.’

  Jimmy guided me out of the hall and through a door marked ‘PRIVATE WOOL BOARD PERSONNEL’, down a corridor and out a side door to the car park. He led me to a rock garden and broke off part of a desert plant that looked suspiciously like a cactus. I took a step back. My cactus days were over.

  He shot me a severe look. ‘Hold your hands out and keep still.’

  I obeyed as he tore at the plant and squeezed. A thick slimy liquid emerged and pooled in my hands. It was surprisingly cool and soothing. Jimmy gently rubbed it into my skin.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Aloe. Dad uses it on his pigeons when they get inflamed. How did this happen?’

  I described Philippe’s soap and the conversation with Dick Dingle.

  ‘Sabotage.’ Jimmy shook his head. ‘Can you compete in the finals?’

  ‘How do you know I’m in the finals?’

  ‘I bumped into that friend of your father’s in the foyer. He was talking to your uncle.’ Jimmy hesitated and smiled for the first time. ‘He said you were magnificent.’

  ‘Trevor?’ The thought of Trevor was almost too much to bear. He’d taken an enormous risk coming to the show.

  Back inside, Jimmy found Dot and led us to a small room off the hall. Within minutes he was back with Norman and Sandy. My uncle had changed into a billowy jumpsuit. It was pure white and gave him the invincible look of an archangel. His hair had narrowed and gone even higher, like the tuft of a sulphur-crested cockatoo. He filled the room with light.