Cindy paints a mud-like substance on my hair and plonks me under one of those big heating pods. It makes me feel a bit claustrophobic. And it kind of burns my ears. In fact, ouch. This is really unpleasant.
‘Excuse me?’ I call out to Cindy. ‘Could you please turn the heat down?’
She doesn’t hear me at first. One of the other hairdressers has chosen that exact moment to turn on an industrial strength blow dryer.
‘EXCUSE ME!’ I yell, right when the blow dryer is turned off again. Cindy looks over, startled.
‘Sorry,’ I apologise, my face turning pink. ‘It’s just that I think this thing is too hot.’
She sighs and comes over to adjust the dial. ‘You only have seven minutes left, but if we turn it down, you’ll have to wait longer.’ She goes out the back and I hear whispering. I hope she’s not telling the other hairdressers how wussy I am.
Gosh, these hairdressing salons can be a bit intimidating. All the stylists are so pretty and confident. It’s enough to make anyone feel inadequate – especially considering my current reflection. I don’t stand a chance with this cape and my hair looking like Encino Man after he popped out of the ice.
Finally Cindy decides I’ve been tortured enough and leads me to the basin. That’s another thing I don’t understand about the whole salon experience – when they tilt your head back at an unnatural angle against a ridge of porcelain. And then they make you stay there for ten minutes while they give you a ‘relaxing’ head massage. I always get headaches the day after having my hair done and I just know it’s because of the basin.
She towel dries my hair and clips a tool belt around her waist. There are at least three different types of scissors on it. I’m starting to feel like I’ve stepped out of a time capsule into the future. Why does she need that many?
I expect Cindy to start chopping away, but instead she’s decided to inspect a strand of my hair. She looks at it like it’s a particularly unique archaeological fossil.
‘Tell me,’ she says. ‘When was the last time you had a haircut?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe two years ago?’
‘Uh no, I don’t think so. It would have to be five at a minimum. See this split end? It takes significant neglect for something like this to occur.’
My face reddens again. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say in a small voice.
‘I just can’t understand how someone can let themselves go like that.’
‘Well, I’ve been kind of busy,’ I stutter. I’m not sure why I feel the need to justify myself to this woman. But in a way she reminds me of one of the cool kids at school and I just want her to like me.
‘There’s no excuse for bad hair,’ she continues to lecture. ‘You need to have some respect for your appearance. You’re probably single, aren’t you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Guys aren’t interested in girls who don’t care about their looks, you know.’
‘I think this is getting a bit personal,’ I say, tears pricking at my eyes. ‘Do you mind if I read a magazine while you cut my hair?’
She stares at me at me for a minute and then thrusts an old copy of Cosmopolitan in my face.
I hide behind an article called How Guys Rate You In Bed.
I think the universe is trying to tell me something.
***
After what seems like hours of cutting and slicing, Cindy stands back to admire her work. She’s now treating my hair as its own separate entity, judging by the amount of attention she’s giving the owner.
I cough politely to indicate I’m still alive. In response, she half-heartedly holds up a mirror to show me the back. I take a peek, and then instantly regret it. It’s awful. How could anyone think a haircut modelled on Johnny Depp circa Edward Scissorhands is even remotely attractive? There are chunks cut out all over my head, and these little stringy bits hanging randomly around my face. I want to die.
‘Doesn’t it look great?’ she coos.
I’m not sure if she’s being sincere or not. I really hope it’s some kind of joke. Any minute now she’ll laugh and say ‘Just kidding. Here’s what it really looks like,’ and then she’ll whip off the wig she sneakily planted when I wasn’t paying attention, revealing a gorgeous new do.
But the longer I sit there, the more I realise she’s serious.
The other stylists peer over and make their obligatory approval noises. I think it must be a compulsory part of the hairdresser’s code or something. Do they really think this looks good?
I fumble around for my handbag and get up, dazed. I walk out without saying another word and vaguely wonder if Cindy even notices. When I glance back, she’s already moved on to the next customer, so I guess not.
I am beyond traumatised. I could maybe go to another salon, but it would probably cost a fortune to fix, and my bank account is a bit sad at the moment.
I walk down the street to the train station and avoid eye contact with everyone I pass. I’m afraid someone will laugh at me if I look up.
Suddenly, I stop.
Damn. I think I forgot my phone. I’d texted Alex from the salon to tell him where I was.
I open my purse and rummage around for a moment just to make sure it’s not hiding in the corner under the mountain of receipts I can’t bring myself to throw away.
‘Oh, you poor thing.’ An elderly lady stops and pats me on the shoulder. ‘Here, take this.’ She presses a few coins into my hand and totters off.
What was that about?
I try to call after the woman to give her back her money but she ignores me and keeps walking.
I shrug and return to the salon.
Cindy looks up in the midst of tormenting her next victim. The grin disappears when she sees me.
‘May I help you?’ she asks politely. She doesn’t seem to remember that she’s just spent three hours destroying my hair.
‘I… er.. forgot my phone.’
‘Oh.’ She makes a big show of apologising to the girl in front of her for the interruption. She goes behind the counter and looks around for a moment before holding up a hot pink mobile. ‘Is this it?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ I grab it and hurry out again. I’m feeling all wrong – I have a terrible case of buyer’s remorse. Is it even still called that when you’re talking about something you didn’t actually pay for?
I nip into Starbucks and order a latte. I need caffeine to get me through the afternoon. I just know this isn’t going to end well for me.
I stand out on the kerb and swallow the scalding liquid in five seconds flat. It makes my eyes water. I stare blankly at the street for a moment.
‘Here love, go and buy yourself a hot meal.’ A kindly man has just handed me a five dollar note. What on earth is going on?
I walk to the station in a daze. Every now and then a stranger smiles sympathetically at me. It’s all very odd.
Then it hits me. They think I’m a homeless person! My haircut is so bad that it looks like I’ve been roughing it on the streets. I want to stop them and yell ‘Can’t you see I’m wearing designer sneakers?’ I’d borrowed them from Alex’s shop to practice my walk. Then I realise you can’t see them for the faded grey tracksuit pants I’m wearing – they were the closest thing I had to sports clothes. But my white t-shirt should be fine – it’s almost brand new. I look down and notice in horror that it’s covered in brown hair dye. I look like I have old food stains all over me. No wonder I’m being treated like a charity case.
I have to get home immediately. The train will take too long; a cab will be much quicker. I stick out my thumb as one drives past. The driver looks at me with a wrinkled nose and keeps going. A second one slows down and winds down the window.
‘Where to?’
‘Just to Thorn Street.’ I thrust my open wallet at him to prove I have the money. ‘Look, I can pay. I promise.’
He looks at me bewildered. ‘I never said you couldn’t.’
I hop in the back seat gratefully. ‘Sorry, it’s just that
everyone seems to think I’m homeless today.’
‘I don’t know why. That haircut must have cost a bomb.’
I stare at him, amazed. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Well I can’t say much for the blow-drying technique, but it’s definitely cutting edge.’
Today is just getting stranger and stranger.
‘How do you know that?’ I ask curiously.
‘My daughter’s a hairdresser. We have copies of Hair Biz all over the house.’
‘I see.’
‘Look, you probably don’t think so now, but that style could look really good on you. When you get home, wash out all that gunk she’s put in your hair and then pin some clips here and here.’ He twists around in his seat and points to his own bald head as an example.
‘OK… I will. Thanks,’ I stammer. Who would have thought?
‘Here we are. That’ll be thirteen-ninety.’
I hand him a twenty and tell him to keep the change. He smiles.
‘Go on. Go and pour yourself a glass of wine and try what I said. You’ll be surprised.’
‘I hope so.’ I run over to my building at lightning speed and take refuge in the empty hallway.
Phew. At least I didn’t see anyone I know.
I zip up the elevator, unlock my door and hurry in, slamming it behind me.
At last. I’m safe.
***
An hour later, I’ve taken the cabbie’s advice. I’ve washed my hair and clipped it back like he demonstrated. He was right – it looks amazing now. Why couldn’t Cindy have done it like this in the first place? I’m feeling a lot better, so I pour myself some white wine and plonk down on the sofa, wrapped up snugly in my dressing gown. I flick on the telly to catch the five o’clock news.
‘Tonight’s special report highlights a serious problem in Brisbane. In a city as seemingly liveable as ours, an increasing number of people are being ignored. Without any way of speaking out, we must do it for them – and shed some light on this often misunderstood group of people.’
I watch, riveted. I’m a sucker for a sob story.
‘Homelessness.’ The newsreader adopts an appropriately serious expression out the front of City Hall with her microphone.
‘Many can no longer afford the rising cost of living. The price of rent, petrol and groceries have all gone up dramatically in recent years. This is forcing people to live in their cars or sleep on the streets.’
Poor homeless people. After today, I feel like I can relate to their situation. All that pity would wear me down after a while. And of course, it would be tough to get a good night’s sleep if you didn’t have a proper bed. I know what I’m like after a night on Alex’s couch. Unless I’m drunk, and then I can crash anywhere. That’s probably why so many homeless people are alcoholics.
The newsreader continues to talk while the screen displays a montage of the homeless roaming the streets downtown. There’s a lady with a shopping trolley piled high with plastic bags and cans… a man with a beanie pulled down over his scraggly grey hair chasing after pigeons in the park… and… me.
No! It can’t be!
There I am, looking bewildered as the old lady pats me on the shoulder and forces her change on me. For heaven’s sake.
‘Many of these people are desperate to integrate into society,’ the newsreader continues. ‘But without a place to stay, they no longer have access to the bathing and laundry facilities we take for granted.’ They zoom in on my stained t-shirt. Really? They can’t tell the difference between gravy stains and expensive hair dye?
This cannot be happening. It has to be some sort of joke. I desperately pray that all my friends are still at work or stuck in the afternoon traffic.
My home phone and mobile ring simultaneously. Bugger.
Check it out on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Zen-Queen-Kirsty-McManus-ebook/dp/B006PNS9KE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kirsty McManus was born in Sydney, Australia and moved to Queensland when she was 14. When she was 25, she lived in Japan for a year with her partner Kesh and worked as an English teacher. This was the inspiration behind her debut novel, Zen Queen. She also spent a year in Canada and then settled back down on the Sunshine Coast in 2008. She now writes almost full time, designs the occasional website and looks after her two little boys.
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