by Susan Juby
All three of us are going to some hair stylist recommended by Dad’s gay friend, Finn. Finn plays poker with my dad and a few other town misfits. I have concerns about Finn’s style suggestions because the only fashionable thing about him is his homosexuality. His clothes certainly aren’t the last word in good taste. He wears these really cheap shoes from Zellers, the kind with fraying vinyl tassels and peeling soles. He is supposed to be anti-consumerism or something. He’d be better off barefoot than in the shoes he wears.
Finn has the glamorous job of Used Sporting Goods Salesman. He drags sweaty old jockstraps around and tries to sell them to truly unfortunate people. It’s quite telling that business is thriving in this town. People in Smithers are so cheap, they’re practically lining up to buy Finn’s stinky wares. He is supposed to be traumatized by living in such a bigoted place (according to Dad), but from what I’ve seen, being gay in Smithers just makes Finn popular—at least with all the hippies and people who think they are too cosmopolitan to fit in here. It’s kind of strange that people who’ve lived here their whole lives still think they don’t fit. Probably their parents didn’t think they fit either.
I once mentioned that theory to Mrs. F., and she said that was a very judgmental and inappropriate thing to say coming from someone who had never even driven a car or “taken a chance on love.” The more I think about Mrs. F., the more I appreciate Bob.
Anyway, I hope that this “fabulous stylist” won’t do an Irma on me. My hair has grown out a bit, but it still takes three or four heavy plastic barrettes to hold down the lump on top.
God, will we ever get there? Any minute now Mom is sure to make me switch places with MacGregor, moving me into the front seat so we can really bare our souls to each other. I’ve packed all three volumes of The Lord of the Rings and will be forced to pick one up and read it if my mom won’t leave me alone.
Later
The Tropicana Inn is fancier than any hotel we’ve got in Smithers. It’s got an indoor pool and a lot of palm trees and ferns and fountains and stuff right inside it.
We’re supposed to go for lunch in a few minutes at the restaurant downstairs. Mom’s acting girlish and giggly. I guess it’s a treat for her to stay anywhere other than a free campsite, which is where we usually end up when we go on vacations. I will try to be nice and get along. MacGregor is already poking around in the plants by the pool. He says that it’s interesting that tropical plants can live this far north and something about all the windows making the hotel act like a greenhouse.
I think I’ll have breaded zucchini sticks for lunch. It’s my favorite in a restaurant. Mom keeps us on a steady diet of stir-fried tofu and vegetables at home, so I try to make a point of going deep-fried whenever we eat out, which is pretty much never.
Still Later
We went to a whole bunch of stores this afternoon. It was very tiring. We spent about forty seconds getting MacGregor his new school clothes: cords and a couple of checked shirts—he’s not very particular. Then Mom kept trying to steer us into stores filled with mucky-colored shapeless cotton dresses and African statues with big stomachs and little heads. Finally she just started going in and buying stuff for herself, not even making an effort to look like we were shopping for me. MacGregor went in with her and gave his opinion, which pretty much consisted of “That looks nice, Mom.” My brother is a lot of things, but he’s no critic. I waited outside on the sidewalk. She wouldn’t have wanted my opinion.
She got a pair of saggy-bum pants and two droopy shirts with blue and purple splotches and a dress with red and purple splotches. She also got a couple of scarves with old-dishrag-looking smears of white and yellow and a big-bellied statue. It’s a good thing she’ll be all set when I go back to school after a ten-year absence.
She said that tomorrow will be my day for sure. We are going to find some thrift stores and stores with nonhippie clothes and go to the aquarium superstore, which, according to MacGregor, has over five hundred tanks of fish to choose from. I think we should also go to a mall, but Mom’s against malls. I am too, in theory, but as a cultural critic I really should know my way around one.
August 16
It’s no wonder the palm trees are thriving in this stupid hotel. It really is a greenhouse. I didn’t sleep at all last night. It’s so humid from the pool that everything feels wet and smells like chlorine. The crappy old air conditioner is on full blast, so not only is the room wet, it’s also completely clammy. And the rattling is deafening. I woke Mom up a couple of times to ask her how she could sleep, but she was unsupportive and unhelpful. MacGregor suggested that I try sleeping in the tub, because the bathroom might be quieter, so I did, but when Mom got up to go to the bathroom, she screamed and woke me up.
I’m going to go swimming as soon as the pool opens.
God, I’m tired. The Tropicana Inn sucks. This trip sucks.
I am never going to accomplish any Life Goals on a trip with my mother and brother. The best I’ll get is marginally better traveled.
Later
Well, that was certainly disgusting. So much for my prebreakfast swim. There was a noticeable yellow tinge in the pool. I mean, it was that standard blue pool color and everything, but I bet every kid under fifteen who’d been in there had peed. Why else would they have to put so much chlorine in the water? My eyes look like the eyes of a habitual drug user. Maybe that will help me get a haircut like Frank’s.
I swear some of those kids got in that pool just to go to the bathroom. They got up, stretched, and went down to the pool to pee. I know MacGregor didn’t, but then my brother is far superior to the average kid. He didn’t see the yellow tint in the water either, but he has a tendency to see only the good in a situation. Mom didn’t go swimming. She prefers a “natural body of water,” which is just basically fish pee without the chlorine, as far as I’m concerned. It’s almost enough to put me off my breakfast. But I’ve been looking forward to non–whole wheat pancakes since last night, and we’ll probably need our strength for our hair appointments.
I pray this stylist friend of Finn’s isn’t another butcher. Well, even if he is, I haven’t got all that much hair left to massacre. Our appointments start at eleven o’clock, and afterward we’re supposed to go thrifting and then to Mac’s fish store. I bet most people don’t thrift with their mom and younger brother, but oh well. Just so long as Mom doesn’t go and buy up every relic from the sixties. I wonder if thrifting counts as a life experience.
Later
I’m a new woman. This has been the best day of my life. I love Prince George.
It can only get worse.
I don’t know where to start.
We went to Finn’s hairdresser friend after breakfast. His shop is called MacGee’s Frolic. I can’t believe he gets any customers at all with a name like that. It sounds like a dog-grooming shop. Anyway, his name is MacGee, and from what I saw, he really likes to frolic. We arrived right on time but MacGee wasn’t in yet. There was a receptionist at the front desk, asleep with her head on her arms. She had exactly the hair I wanted, and she was wearing a racingstripe sweater, platform sneakers, and tight, checked stretch pants. You can imagine my relief!
We sat around for a while, and every so often Gilda, “I’ll be assisting MacGee today,” would lift her head and assure us that MacGee would be in soon. MacGee must like to spend time at work after hours. There were wine glasses everywhere, with cigarette butts floating in them and butts all over the floors and the counter and an empty gin bottle lying in the wash-up sink.
Mom said the shop smelled like a bar that the busser forgot to clean up. She didn’t look very impressed.
Finally, at about a quarter to twelve, MacGee showed up. He certainly has different taste than old Crappy Shoes Finn. I think he may have been wearing the outfit he went to bed in. His shoes were pointy and made of shiny black leather, and his pants were pinstriped and Rod Stewart tight. The craziest part of his outfit was this see-through black shirt covered with fat, pink, flesh
y-looking roses. The shirt had ruffles down the front and was buttoned up wrong, so there was a big gap open at his middle. His belly button was pierced. Oh my God! It was great!
MacGee’s hair was bleached yellow and stood up in every direction. He still seemed pretty drunk, and his nose was that red only really serious drinkers get. Still, he was very good-looking.
He came striding in like he’d been running around all day and was totally exhausted. In a strong Irish, or maybe it was Scottish, accent he started in at Gilda for not “keeping my bloody appointments straight. Jesus, this is a business, lass. No room for unprofessionalism.” When Gilda started to pout, he backed off.
“Oh Christ. All right. Just wake up. Keep it together. Lord Jesus, but my head hurts. Get me a coffee, would you?”
Then he turned to us with a huge smile.
“Well now. And how are we today? Aye, welcome to my frolic, my name’s MacGee. Jesus, but you lot need some help, eh?” he said, looking from me to my mother.
My mother started to tell him that I was the one to be styled and how I’d recently had a bad experience, but she was just fine, thanks. MacGee was having none of it.
“Oh me darlin’, I know just the thing for you. And the little miss here. Lovely. A bit of strangeness for a crown now, but we’ll soon fix that. Oh yes, lass, you’ll be a sensation. Look like a London girl, you will. And the young gent. A bit of the J. Crew naturalist look for you.”
And back to my mother: “Quite a butcher you’ve had at the offspring, eh? And I suppose you’ll be wanting a bit of an update?”
He turned away and clapped his hands.
“Gilda, me darling. We’ll be needing help. It’s a rush we’ve got here. Call young Lancelot. He’ll be just the thing to get me through this morning.” And to us: “Such a pity young Lance is underage. Lovely boy.”
Soon Mom, MacGregor, and I were all sitting with our backs to the washing sink while Lance (a fresh-faced farmboy in a plaid shirt and Wrangler jeans) and Gilda ran around getting the right shampoos and conditioners.
MacGee sat in the corner on a high stool, chain-smoking and taking huge gulps of his coffee. He yelled out directions and complaints at the same time.
“My God in Heaven, Gilda! Chamomile for the lady and pine for the lad. Oh Jesus, my head. This is no ordinary hangover, I tell you. Likely I’ve developed a brain aneurysm, or some such.
“Our Father in sweet Heaven above, Lance, love. That’s lemongrass. Pine, I said. Pine. It’s the only thing for a young man who wears gum boots on a Saturday in town.”
After about ten rounds of washing, rinsing, conditioning, rinsing, and clarifying, we were allowed to sit in the chairs on the other side of the shop. I was worried that MacGee had exhausted himself screaming out the washing instructions, but he was just getting going.
Soon we were all settled in our chairs, covered with shoulder towels and draped in huge plastic capes with a chili-pepper motif, and MacGee had a coffee in front of each of us.
“Lord God above us, Gilda! Get the lad a coffee. If he’s old enough to grow hair, he’s old enough to drink coffee. A bit of cream and sugar?”
And with a devilish wink at my mother: “Never too early to get ‘em started on the vices, eh? Ha ha!”
Then MacGee got up and began sort of stalking around our chairs, glaring at our stringy wet hair. He would go all the way around, do a little pirouette-type thing, and go back around again. Hands on hips, he occasionally moved in and flicked at a piece of hair like it had personally offended him.
Finally he went back to his stool in the corner and furiously smoked another cigarette. Lance and Gilda stood at attention behind us. Even though Gilda was fully awake, she swayed back and forth a bit and did a lot of eye blinking. It was very exciting. Even MacGregor seemed interested.
Just when the tension was almost too much, MacGee lurched around, grabbed some scissors, and moved in on MacGregor’s head. He was a hairdressing sensation with a tumorous shirt and red nose. Hair flew everywhere, and when MacGregor hunched down in his chair, MacGee stood back and pointed, and Lance pulled MacGregor up by the shoulders.
Before we knew it, it was over. MacGee switched to Mom.
She was a bit braver than MacGregor and didn’t have to be pulled up by her shoulders. It was incredible to see the Relic of the Sixties meet the Scissors of Advance.
MacGee had a crazed but rapt look on his face. It must be a hairdresser’s wet dream to get at a style-free zone like my mom’s head. If anything, MacGee was cutting Mom’s hair even faster than he had MacGregor’s, bobbing in and out and dancing around. He started to sweat, pure alcohol it smelled like, and I was hoping that he wouldn’t collapse before he got to me.
Finally, he went into this double pirouette with a dip from Gilda (I think she actually mopped his forehead) and lunged at me. It was the most terrifying experience. The scissors were inches from my eyes, little puffs of spray water hit me like tear gas, and sopping bits of hair fell everywhere. I could barely open my eyes for fear of losing my eyelashes. Every so often Gilda thrust one of those big fuzzy brushes at my nose or cheek, only to be repelled by the crazed, soursmelling MacGee. He was no Irma. He was the real thing, faster even than Vidal Sassoon.
When he was finished, he slumped into his corner and I saw him pour something from a little flask into his coffee. He lit another cigarette and, with a trembling hand, pointed weakly at the blow-dryers. Gilda and Lance pulled massive hair dryers from their holsters and went at Mom and MacGregor with an abandon that suggested they had no clue at all what their hairstyles were supposed to look like.
Suddenly chipper after his coffee, MacGee came over and grabbed a hair dryer. He waved it all over the place while he gestured and talked about the lack of appreciation he got as an artist in Prince George. Blasts of hot air were directed at my ear or my eye for a second or two, and then at the floor or ceiling as he railed against the “bloody provincials, but God how I love the mountains and the open sky.”
That kind of surprised me, since MacGee looked as though he stepped outside only to get to the bar next door. He was one of the most unhealthy, un-outdoorsy-looking people I’ve ever seen. For an older guy, though, he was very attractive. Health is actually fairly overrated in appearance, I find.
Anyway, in spite of his total inattention to how my hair dried, it started to take on a shape. It was exactly what I wanted. It was just like Frank’s and Gilda’s. It was perfect! There is a limit to how excited I can get about something as shallow as a haircut, but I have to admit it was exciting to have my alternative hair vision brought to life by an artist like MacGee.
Mom and MacGregor, in spite of Gilda and Lance’s total incompetence (I wonder if everyone back on the farm knew Lance was working in a hairdressing shop), also looked great.
Mom’s was actually almost nice—a real revelation after her standard unrecovered hippie-do. MacGregor looked amazing—preppy, studious, and outdoorsy, maybe related to James Spader in some capacity.
I hadn’t been that happy since I became conscious for the first time, you know, when I became aware of myself and got so uncomfortable and everything. I can’t fail at school with hair like this! I’m becoming the person I want to be. In fact I was a little worried about all that joy, so I kept my face still. It’s not a good idea to let on about extreme happy feelings. People get ideas. When Gilda came over and put a couple of metallic pink barrettes in my hair, my face slipped into a bit of a smile, but I caught it pretty fast. I think Mom saw, though, because even when she saw the bill, and our haircuts cost almost as much as our car, she didn’t complain.
When we left, MacGee waved blearily from his corner, where he was alternating between his flask and his coffee cup. I think he said something about us looking fabulous, but he was talking into an empty space in the middle of the shop. Maybe he was congratulating himself on being fabulous or remarking again on the mountains.
Later
Oh my God.
I think I met a boy.
Just saying it makes my skin crawl. I mean, it’s so un-alternative or something. My boot face hasn’t exactly attracted boys, guys, or whatever, to me like flies. Plus, there’s that whole not-leaving-the-house thing. The whole girl-boy subject is embarrassing and dumb. Maybe I should be against it. And I am really, for the most part. God. I know I put that boy/girl interaction thing on my list. I know it’s supposed to be normal. I just don’t think I’m there yet.
We were in this store called Thrunge—I guess to capitalize on the whole grunge thing (so over now, but maybe the store can’t afford to get its signs changed every time the music scene changes) and the whole thrift thing.
Mom and MacGregor and I were thrifting. I was finding some really great stuff. Velour V-neck shirts, a striped ski sweater, checked polyester pants, a silver vest, old housedresses, horn-rimmed glasses, lunch buckets with Bam Bam and Pebbles on them. I even found a pair of blue cord gauchos. I think my new haircut drew the cool clothes to me. I knew that once I looked alternative, I would attract alternative things into my life. And it was true.
I was just encouraging MacGregor to try on a Charlie’s Angels T-shirt, and my mom was talking earnestly with the body-piercing specialist about “how we approached primitivism in the sixties,” when this guy, boy, whatever, said “Hi” to me. Oh my God.
He was, it sounds juvenile and idiotic to say, I mean, enthusiasm isn’t really my thing, but he was really cute. He told me he liked my hair. He told MacGregor that the Charlie’s Angels T-shirt was cool, but maybe the G.I. Joe shirt might be better. He asked me where we were from. He asked me if I wanted to “go for a soda” and winked and said, “in the truest Kim Mitchell sense,” and I had no idea what he meant, but I went anyway.
Oh my God. I was dying. Mom got really gushy and supportive but tried to act cool when I told her I was going to go out for a coffee or whatever while they went to MacGregor’s fish store. It was painful. His name was Aubrey. He was wearing stretch pants and horn-rimmed glasses and a cardigan. I couldn’t even talk. It was amazing.