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Thankfully, work has settled down. Everyone was walking on eggshells around me for the first couple of days, but now that they’ve satisfied themselves that I’m not going to dissolve into hysterics at the slightest provocation, the usual banter has resumed. The practice feels like a welcome haven of stability at the moment, and I’m not even as grumpy as I usually am about working this Saturday morning. Yes, the patients are the usual crowd, and I have to explain to one of them that, no, I can’t fit a full scale and polish into ten minutes, but I don’t let it get to me. The truth is that I’ve got other things on my mind, namely the appointment this afternoon.
After my shopping trip with Mads, Mum kept ‘casually’ dropping hints about booking an appointment with Paul, Mads’ hair stylist, so just after New Year I gave in and rang them up. I had to call into his very swanky-looking salon for patch tests during my lunch break a few days ago, and my appointment with him is this afternoon. I’ll admit I’m a little bit anxious. I’ve had the same hairstyle since I was a teenager and I’ve used the same, slightly shabby, hairdresser down the road from Josh’s flat for the last six years. I’m used to a quick wash and cut that takes half an hour, tops. I’m not really a ‘salon’ person, and I’m slightly worried that Paul will take one look at my ponytail and frogmarch me straight back out of the door. I hope he doesn’t, though. I’m ready for a change and, if he is anywhere near as good as Mads claims he is, then I’m happy to go with pretty much whatever he suggests. To be fair, Mads’ hair always looks great. It’s a beautiful honey-gold colour and falls in loose waves to just below her shoulders. It has that simple elegance that you just know comes with a hefty price tag.
Mads was beyond excited when I told her. ‘Oh my God! He’s going to make you look so fabulous. What time is the appointment? I want to come and give you moral support.’
‘Mads, I’m having a haircut, not a baby! I’ll be fine. I’ll WhatsApp you a picture once it’s done, I promise.’
She’s not easily fobbed off, but eventually concedes defeat. I love her to bits, but the idea of her and Paul deciding what’s best for me, as if I’m some kind of hairdresser’s dummy without opinions of my own, is too much. I don’t want a repeat of the bra-fitting ambush. I’m supposed to be an adult, for goodness’ sake. I’m sure I can manage this.
As soon as I arrive at the salon, I’m offered a hot drink and Paul guides me over to his chair, where he puts me in a gown. He pulls up a stool next to me, checks the patch test and asks me lots of questions about my current style (if you can call it that) and what I have in mind.
‘The only rule is that it either has to be above the shoulder, or I have to be able to tie it back for work. Beyond that I have no idea. I’m open to suggestions,’ I explain.
‘I can work with that,’ he says. ‘I’ve got some ideas of things that we could do, but to narrow it down I’ll show you some pictures of different styles that I think would work with your hair, and you can tell me what you like. Is that OK?’
Paul shows me lots of pictures of different hairstyles, and I point out a few. After a while he professes himself satisfied.
‘What about colour? Did you want to change it, or stick to the natural colour?’
‘I don’t know,’ I profess. ‘I’ve wondered about going more blonde, but it’s difficult to picture, do you know what I mean?’
He nods. ‘I think what I’d be inclined to do is just add a few subtle highlights this time,’ he says. ‘Your natural colour really suits you, so I think we just want to enhance it and bring it out a bit more, rather than change it, if you’re happy with that?’
‘Fine with me. You’re the expert.’
‘Final question,’ he says. ‘It feels like you’re after a completely new look, so would you like to be able to see what I’m doing as I go, or would you rather I covered up the mirror and gave you a big reveal at the end?’
I take a moment to think about it. I’m used to having the mirror there to reassure myself that they’re not cutting too much off, so the idea of not being able to see is a bit daunting. On the other hand, I’m not really going to know what it is going to look like until the end, so it might be better to be kept in the dark until then, rather than trying to second-guess what he’s doing all the way through.
‘I think I’ll go for the big reveal, thanks,’ I tell him.
He goes off to mix up the colours he wants to apply, and then chats away to me as he and one of his assistants carefully separate strands of my hair and lay them on pieces of tinfoil, before applying paste from one of the pots they have between them, and wrapping them up into parcels. He hasn’t covered over the mirror yet, so I watch them as they work. By the time they have finished my head is covered in little silver squares and I look like a pantomime Martian.
‘I need to leave that to cook, so to speak. Would you like anything to read while you wait?’
I select a fairly recent version ofHello!magazine. It’s all the usual fare; some celebrity I’ve never heard of shows us round her perfect home, someone else has just had a baby, and so on. It’s all gushing prose and beautifully styled pictures. I find myself wondering if anyone actually buys magazines like this, or whether they only ever exist in doctors’ waiting rooms and hairdressers’.
After a while the assistant comes back and takes me over to the washing station. The parcels are all carefully removed, and my hair is washed in the most amazing-smelling shampoo and conditioner. I’m also treated to a head massage, which is lovely, but threatens to send me to sleep. When I get back to the chair, the mirror has been covered over.
‘Ready?’ Paul asks.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ I reply.
He starts cutting. I don’t look down to see how much hair is landing on the floor in case I panic and flee. I smile as a mental image of me running down the street comes into my mind. The hairdressing gown is flapping around me, and one half of my head is completely bald. Not a good look.
Paul is very attentive. He asks about work, how I know Mads, and is full of entertaining stories about terrible hair he’s had to fix. He’s fairly camp, so I’m surprised to learn that he’s married, with a teenage daughter.
‘She’s just started working here on Saturdays,’ he tells me. ‘At the moment it’s just making tea and coffee for customers, and sweeping up, but she’s hoping to go to college and train to be a stylist. I think she’ll be good. I know I’m bound to say that, being her dad, but she’s good with people, and that’s a big part of the job. You can be the best stylist in the world technically, but if you can’t read your customer and make them feel at ease then you’re not going to succeed.’
After what seems like an age, Paul stops cutting. Out comes the hairdryer and, after a thorough blow-dry, he pronounces himself satisfied.
‘Close your eyes,’ he commands, and I obey. I can hear the cloth being removed from the mirror.
‘Right, when you’re ready, open them and have a look.’
It takes me a second or two to summon the courage, but when I do the sight that greets me takes my breath away for a moment. My plain brown ponytail is gone. My hair now ends just below my chin in what Paul describes as a medium bob. The highlights are subtle, but somehow bring a whole extra dimension to the colour. It shines softly from the conditioner, like I’m in one of those shampoo adverts on TV. It’s beautiful.
‘What do you think?’
