Am I Right or Am I Right?

by Barry Jonsberg

  He wasn’t in and I worried for a while if he had succumbed to the mystery clack ailment, and if so, whether it would have cleared up by Friday.

  Candy was in, though. I got the impression she never took a night off sick, possibly because no self-respecting virus would touch her. She looked at me as if I was something nasty left over in the mother-baby diaper-changing facility (I wanted them to rename it Crazi-Krap but didn’t think it was worth suggesting to management). Or rather, she nearly looked at me. Her eyes slid over the fluorescent lighting as she explained the mysteries of register rolls, scanning procedures, and refund policies.

  I was going to work the register!

  So much for the theory that operating the checkout was up there with cardiac bypass operations in terms of complexity and experience required. A few people got sick and they threw in a complete novice. I don’t know what they would have done if I hadn’t been able to work—probably kidnapped a toddler from the parking lot and stuck him in a high chair at the register.

  Anyway, it didn’t seem complicated. Get the bar code in line with the scanner and away you go. I reckoned I could do that without burning out too many neurons. Candy wandered off to hone her gum-chewing skills at the customer service desk and I was left in charge of checkout six. It was the only one in operation. I had been hoping that all the carts laden with tricky items would miraculously line up at another register and I would be left with the handbaskets containing one item. With one checkout in operation, this seemed an unlikely scenario.

  My first customer was all right. She did have a handbasket and there were only a few items in it. Now, I hadn’t had any specific training, but I knew what to do. I fixed her with a dazzling smile, like she was a long-lost relative.

  “And how are you this fine evening?” I said. It was difficult to enunciate properly while giving her the full range of my teeth, so it might have come out garbled. She certainly seemed startled, possibly at my exuberance, possibly at being confronted by a practicing ventriloquist, but she recovered quickly.

  “I’m great, thank you. And you?”

  “Couldn’t be better.” Actually, it came out as “Couldn-gee-getta,” but I think she caught my drift. Grinning like a lunatic, I scanned her five items without faltering once, and rang up the total.

  “That’ll be four thousand, four hundred, and twenty-five dollars and forty cents, please,” I said happily.

  “Pardon?” she said.

  “We take all major credit cards,” I said.

  She laughed. “I think you’ve made a mistake.”

  I couldn’t fault her logic. I’d hoped she wouldn’t notice, but I guess that was always going to be a long shot. I pressed a buzzer and a red lamp lit up above my checkout—useful if you’ve got twenty registers in operation but a bit redundant in this instance. Not difficult to spot the loser.

  Candy meandered over and I explained the slight discrepancy. She tut-tutted without breaking her chewing rhythm and used the key around her neck to open my register.

  “I do apologize, madam,” Candy said to the customer. “She’s new.”

  “She?” The woman’s mouth twisted slightly. “You mean Calma? No need to apologize. A small mistake.”

  Candy grunted. I could tell she was disappointed. She was clearly hoping the two of them could have a full and frank discussion of my customer-care shortcomings. Instead, she copped a put-down. It’s good to savor moments like those and my smile widened. I could nearly suck my own ears. Candy canceled the transaction and slunk off without another word. I rang up the purchases again.

  “You have qualified, madam, for a discount of nearly four and a half thousand dollars,” I said, “for being one of the few people in the world to pronounce my name correctly.” I pointed to the badge on my blouse. “Most say, ‘Kal-ma,’ when of course it’s ‘Kar-mer.’”

  She laughed and it lit up her whole face. There are some people who exude an air of good humor, who give the impression that little, if anything, will stop them seeing the funny side of things. She was one of those. I warmed to her instantly.

  “Calma,” she said, “thank you. You have brightened my evening.”

  I could hear her laughing as she left the store.

  The rest of the shift, believe it or not, went by with scarcely a hiccup. Okay, there were one or two small mistakes, but I sorted them out myself. Thankfully we weren’t busy. I don’t know where pensioners go on a Wednesday—bingo? mud wrestling? the over-eighty leapfrog national championships?—but they steered clear of Crazi-Cheep and I was grateful for that. I even managed to get in some thinking about Vanessa.

  I knew she was right. Partly, anyway. I can be a smart-arse (does this come as a great shock to you?), but I have never tried to humiliate someone for the hell of it. And Vanessa seemed to be implying that I got a kick out of putting people down. Is that what others thought about me? I’m not a bitch. Honest. Not deliberately. Anyway, should I worry how others perceive me? It was Kiffo who taught me that changing your personality and behavior to suit other people’s perceptions was wrong. But Vanessa worried me.

  Why had she reacted so angrily? I couldn’t understand it. She must have been suffering in some way, but the origin of the pain was a mystery. After my raw hurt subsided, I saw Vanessa’s reaction for what it was—a cry for help. She had lashed out blindly and I should have felt angry if she hadn’t used me as a target. What are friends for, after all? I made up my mind to go to her house at the earliest opportunity and talk.

  She could be noncommunicative and downright strange, but Vanessa was my friend. I’m a little strange myself, if the truth be known.

  The only other thing worth mentioning about my shift was that my father turned up at about eleven o’clock. I noticed him out of the corner of my eye, much the way you do when a rodent scuttles out of the wardrobe and disappears under the bed. (Look, it might not have happened to you, but you probably live somewhere where wildlife have the decency to observe negotiated boundaries.)

  Anyway, he skittered among the aisles, pausing occasionally to scan the shelves. I wasn’t fooled, though. He was giving me the once-over. Either that or there was something fascinating about the pan scourer section.

  I ignored him and he disappeared. If only it could be that easy all the time! Certainly he didn’t buy anything. When you’re the only checkout operator, you notice stuff like that. It made me uneasy, though. When I left the store at midnight and walked the short distance home, I kept glancing over my shoulder. I had a horrible feeling someone was following. Once I thought I saw a shadow move when all the other shadows remained fixed. I stopped in the middle of the street and focused on using my peripheral vision, but I couldn’t see anything.

  It must have been my imagination.

  I went round to Vanessa’s house straight after school on Thursday. She had been avoiding me during the day and I wanted to defuse the tension.

  Mrs. Aldrick opened the door in the manner of one expecting an advance party of invading aliens from Alpha Centauri, showed me into the front room, and disappeared in a flurry of rolling eyeballs. Vanessa was curled up on the sofa, watching something appalling on the TV. It was one of those soap operas where everyone is young, physically irresistible, morally unscrupulous, and emotionally screwed.

  Scene 37

  Interior. Daytime. Vanessa’s front room. Tasteful art is on the walls, potted plants with gleaming leaves stand in corners, and there is no hint of dirt anywhere. It looks like a room fumigated regularly by people in white coats and breathing apparatus. You could perform open-heart surgery on the dining table with complete confidence (see next episode).

  Vanessa Aldrick, seventeen, is lying on the sofa. She is dressed in flowing robes of pure white that drape elegantly over slender limbs. Her hair, a pale waterfall, catches the light.

  Enter Calma Harrison. She radiates good health. Her long, muscular, tanned legs are perfectly complemented by an immaculately tailored designer dress. Her bust heaves dramatically, th
reatening to explode out of the confining material and concuss a cameraman. When she smiles, impossibly white teeth flash like a solar flare.

  She stands in front of Vanessa, one beautifully manicured hand on hip, the other running through the silk of her hair.

  Calma: Nessa. You were right about Jason all along. He has been two-timing me with Charlene.

  Nessa: That girl who is so attractive she makes us seem like the rear end of a constipated Rottweiler?

  Calma: The very same. I found out tonight when he crashed his sports car (with her in it) into the coffee shop, killing four extras, ruining the special of the day and turning Tammy into a paraplegic.

  Nessa: Tammy? The champion surfer with the honed body of an Olympic athlete and flawless makeup?

  Calma: The very same.

  Vanessa and I talked. I apologized for swearing at her. She apologized for what she had said about Kiffo.

  On the surface, we were okay again. But I wasn’t satisfied. Vanessa was hiding something. I mean, it was fine that she recognized her overreaction, but she didn’t offer any explanation for it. And there had to be something more. The difficulty would be getting it out of her—as you must have gleaned by now, Vanessa isn’t the best communicator in the world. It was a problem.

  I didn’t have time that afternoon, so I filed the dilemma away for future reference. You see, I’d made an appointment at the hairdresser’s for five o’clock and I didn’t want to be late. I was overdue for a trim. My hair had been bothering me for some time. It had nothing to do with my date on Friday, you understand.

  As it turned out, I wish I’d stayed with Vanessa and watched the rest of the soap opera.

  Chapter 10

  Just your average hairdo

  I don’t know how you are positioned on the feminist spectrum, but let me present you with a scenario. You are thinking of going to the hairdresser’s to prepare for a date. Part of you is disturbed by this. You examine your motives and see if they stand up to rational scrutiny. Which of the following do you most identify with?

  a) Going on a date should not compromise your standards. Trying to impress a guy with good grooming is a sad indictment of your insecurity. It is better to turn up exactly as you are, warts and all, and if he is not impressed, then he is a shallow individual not worthy of your attention in the first place.

  b) It is entirely understandable to want to make an impression. If a trip to the local dump is normally preceded by ensuring you are clean and tidy, then a social engagement would obviously justify greater effort. This would include paying attention to hair, makeup, and outfit. Not to do so would be artificial. What’s the alternative? Not showering, and dressing in soiled shorts and ripped T-shirt with bird’s-nest hair?

  c) You might as well go whole hog—hairdo, manicure, pedicure, liposuction, Botox, facelift, nose job, new outfit from Versace, and sufficient makeup to cement a stone wall. Then leave half your brain cells at home and simply giggle and clutch the guy’s arm from time to time.

  It seemed to me that the second option was the mature and considered choice. So on Wednesday afternoon, before I went to work, I looked up hairdressers in the Yellow Pages.

  I decided I wouldn’t go to my usual place. Don’t get me wrong. It was a fine establishment and Cheryl, my hairdresser, was competent at lopping off split ends while engaging in uninspiring conversation about the weather. I just felt she was more of an artisan than an artist.

  I also didn’t want to go to places that used puns in their business name. You know, things like The Final Cut or Hair Today. Don’t ask me why. Oh, go on. Ask me why. They bloody annoy me, that’s why. I refuse to hand over money to someone who thinks a weak pun is a brilliant marketing ploy. And as for anything with a z in it—Cutz, Endz—well, I wouldn’t advocate firebombing under any circumstances, but I understand how someone might feel it was the only solution.

  In the end I decided to give Alessandro’s a go. I called for an appointment. It sounded expensive. You can tell these things from the receptionist’s tone of voice. The trouble is, you can’t ask about price on the phone, can you? I’m not sure why. It’s an immutable law, like gravity or something.

  After I left Vanessa’s house, I took a bus straight to the mall. Alessandro’s was next to fashion outlets that charged three hundred bucks for a miniskirt. Alessandro’s was impressive. Black marble, a tasteful sign, spotlighting, no price list in the window. I felt inadequate just entering the place.

  The receptionist gave me the once-over and didn’t appear impressed. Maybe I should have left then. I can’t stand people who think they’re doing you a favor by accepting your business. The receptionist was stick-thin, dressed in black, and sporting a hairdo that stuck out at crazy angles. Undoubtedly it was the height of fashion. I fronted up to the counter and gave my name. She scanned the appointment book and seemed disappointed to find I had indeed booked.

  The hairdresser came over and gave me the same look the receptionist did. “What would you like done?” she said, studying my hair. I can’t be sure, but I think I detected a lip curling fractionally.

  I’m fine in most social situations. I can talk intelligently to people. But hairdressers intimidate me. I suddenly find myself nervous and tongue-tied, as if I am not qualified to talk about my own hair.

  “Well, I don’t know, really,” I said, not making the most confident start to the consultation. “A trim, I suppose. Get rid of the split ends and style it. Whatever you think.” I hated myself as soon as I made that last remark.

  The hairdresser examined my hair more closely.

  “We might be able to do something,” she said grudgingly, as if I’d asked her to weave a Persian carpet out of the fluff that gets stuck in the filters of tumble dryers. “Follow me, please.”

  The salon was plush, I must say. There were Aboriginal paintings on the walls, the lighting was discreet, and there was more stainless-steel gadgetry dotted about than you’d find in an average operating room. I started to really worry about cost. If push came to shove, I suppose I could have offered to sweep up hair to pay the bill, but I suspected I would have to accumulate enough to occupy a landfill site. I decided to worry about it later.

  It was great at first. I had to put my glasses down on a counter, which meant the Aboriginal art became decidedly more abstract, at least from my perspective. Then I leaned back in a soft leather chair and an apprentice washed my hair and massaged my scalp. There’s nothing like having someone else washing your hair. It takes you back to your childhood, when your mum used to lather your head into a frenzy. All I needed was a rubber duck to play with afterward and I would have been a happy girl.

  When she had made my hair squeaky, I was led back to a seat in front of a mirror and the hairdresser combed my hair, occasionally lifting a portion off to the side, for reasons best known to herself. Certainly she didn’t keep me informed of her progress. I couldn’t see what she was doing. Without my glasses I have the visual acuity of a fruit bat. But there was plenty of prodding going on. I gazed impassively at the blurred reflection in the mirror. Finally she spoke.

  “Who usually does your hair?” she said.

  I told her and she grunted. I got the distinct impression she looked upon Cheryl in much the same way a brain surgeon would look upon a faith healer.

  “Well,” she continued, “your hair is a challenge. It’s in appalling condition and the amateurish cuts you’ve had in the past mean there are limits to what I can do. I think it would be best if we started from scratch. I suggest we take a fair amount off the length…to about here.” She was showing me in the mirror, but I got only the haziest notion of what she meant. “Then I can style it, so it follows the curve of your cheekbones. Like this.” Again I squinted and again came up blank. “Does that sound all right?”

  Now, tell me. What should you say under these circumstances? I mean, I know I hadn’t been insulted personally, but it’s difficult to keep your composure when someone is implying your hair is beneath contempt.r />
  “Fine,” I said.

  I don’t know if this has happened to you. If it hasn’t, you’ll have to trust me. There is a defining moment in a hairdresser’s when you know, absolutely and unequivocally, that a disaster is occurring. It comes with the first snip of scissors just below your left ear and the sense of hair falling. Lots of hair. Hair that can never be returned. Hair today, gone forever.

  The worst part is that you know a scream of “Stop!” is going to achieve nothing, except possibly a coronary for your hairdresser.

  I went rigid with terror. Sweat glistened on my forehead. The spawn-of-Satan hairdresser carried on blithely snipping, huge swathes of hair flying around manically. My head was getting lighter, literally and metaphorically. In the end I shut my eyes. I resisted the urge to stick my thumb in my mouth and start sucking, but it was difficult.

  The rest of the procedure was a blur. The snipping and slicing seemed to go on forever. Then there was a vigorous massage of the scalp with something greasy and a finale with a hair dryer and comb. Eventually, she declared she was done. I stood up and put on my glasses.

  It’s not often I’ve nearly lost control of my bladder, but this was touch-and-go. I looked in the mirror and Gollum in a toupee looked back. We regarded each other suspiciously for a moment before I was led to reception and presented with a bill for $110. Under other circumstances, I would have laughed derisively. This time I handed over my credit card meekly. The small part of my brain still functioning noted, in a calm and distant fashion, that this completely wiped out my checking account. I clutched the receipt, gathered up my bag, and went out into the mall.

  I stood for a moment, hoping to see a bus I could throw myself under. Unfortunately, it was a mall.

  Then, at my bleakest moment, I saw it. The solution. The only solution. The final solution.

  I hurried across before the stall closed. I was the last customer. Ten minutes later, it was done. The Leukemia Foundation gave me a bandanna, which was a blessing, and heartfelt congratulations for doing my bit for those less fortunate than myself. I told them I’d get the money from my sponsors as soon as I could and drop the cash off at their main office.