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I keep swishing my hair from side to side. I can’t believe this person in the mirror is me. ‘It’s amazing, Paul. Really. Thank you so much!’
Paul explains what he’s done and shows me how to blow-dry it so it keeps its shape. I make a note to buy a new hairdryer as the £9.99 one I bought years ago in Argos patently isn’t going to cut the mustard any more. His bill is fairly eye-watering, particularly once I’ve added shampoo, conditioner and various masks to keep it looking good, but I pay it happily.
As soon as I’m out on the street I take a selfie and send it to Mads. My phone pings almost immediately with an incoming message.
Told you he was good. You look HOT! <3 <3 <3
8
The hair is a great success. Mum keeps going on about how amazing it looks, and is contemplating booking an appointment with Paul herself. Dad, typically, didn’t notice at first and Mum had to prompt him several times. He was very complimentary when he finally worked out what was different though. Even some of the patients at work have remarked on it.
I hadn’t realised, until I started this journey of reinvention, how little care I’d been taking over my appearance for the last few years. Josh never seemed to mind what I wore, so I’d tended to gravitate towards comfort over style. My casual ‘look’, if you can call it that, tended to consist of trackie bottoms, jeans or leggings under a big hoodie top or baggy jumper. I look at myself now, in my fitted top and skinny jeans, with my new hair, and I feel like a different person. There’s just one bit of the ‘old’ me that I haven’t addressed yet, and the time has come to do something about it.
‘I thought I might go and look at some cars next Wednesday,’ I announce to my parents over dinner. ‘The Micra really is on its last legs, and I ought to get rid of it before it dies on me.’
‘Thank God for that!’ my dad replies. ‘I’m sure that thing is a death trap. I’ll take the afternoon off and come with you if you like. Help you negotiate, make sure you get a good deal. In fact, I could ring John at Mercedes. He might have a nice A-Class or something for you.’
Cars are another area where my parents are very set in their ways. My father dreamed of owning a Mercedes when he was starting out and, as soon as he could afford it, he bought one. Ever since then he’s driven nothing else. Now he and Mum both have them – his is some enormous SUV thing, and hers is a sporty convertible.
‘Thanks, Dad, but I think a Mercedes is a little out of my price range.’ I don’t tell him that I also reckon I’m about twenty years too young. ‘Don’t worry about taking time off work. I’m a big girl now and I reckon I can manage to buy a car unsupervised.’
‘Are you sure? Let me at least give you some tips before you go, OK?’
Wednesday comes around, and car-hunting turns out not to be the fun-filled afternoon I’d hoped it would be. Armed with all my father’s negotiating tips, such as ‘Ask for what you want and then don’t speak – force them to make the next move,’ and ‘Make sure they throw in floor mats for free – ask for those right at the end,’ I started the search with high hopes that I’d find the perfect car for me fairly easily.
So far, I haven’t seen anything I like, and I’ve come to realise that the process is complicated somewhat by the fact that I don’t really know what I want. I don’t want anything too big, but it’s got to have something fun about it. I want it to make me smile if I see a reflection of me driving it in a shop window. The tatty Micra makes me look like a student, partly because it dates back to my student days, so I know I want something a bit more ‘grown-up’ than that. But a lot of the cars I’m being shown make me feel like I should go straight back to Paul and ask for a blue rinse.
The sales people have been awful too. The first guy feigned interest, but I could tell he didn’t think I was a serious buyer. He didn’t quite say ‘Come back with your boyfriend/husband/father’ but I could hear him thinking it. He did have one car that I liked the look of, a sporty-looking VW Polo, but when I asked about a test drive, he became very evasive.
‘Those are in tremendous demand,’ he told me. ‘I’d need a pretty firm commitment that you’re going to buy it before I could offer a test drive. It’s about trust, you see. I don’t really know you, so I need to know that you’re serious about doing a deal today before we could go any further.’
‘I’m not going to commit to buying it before I’ve even driven it! That’s mad!’
‘I’m sorry then, miss. I don’t think I can help you. It’s company policy. Come back and see us when you’re ready to buy.’ I saw him watching me as I drove off in the Micra; he obviously thought I’d been wasting his time.
The second sales guy seemed to be under the impression that he was my best friend. Vastly overfamiliar, he kept touching my arm and my lower back as he ‘guided’ me round the various cars he thought might be suitable. He was particularly keen to sell me a Honda Jazz in metallic pink, and kept going on about its merits, even after I told him it wasn’t what I was looking for. He also reeked of cheap aftershave and cigarettes and, in the end, I had to make up a forgotten appointment to get away from him.
In order to appease Dad, I did go and see John at Mercedes, but the only car he had that came close to my budget was a bottom of the range A-Class in white, which made me feel a hundred years old as soon as I sat in it. I thanked him politely and fled.
I’m now at the Ford dealership, talking to Grant. So far, he’s been professional and courteous, which is a welcome relief after the first two. He’s flicking me through the stock list on the screen and, at the moment, it’s just more of the same sort of boring stuff that I’ve seen in the other garages. I’m starting to wonder whether I’ll be stuck with the Micra forever.
‘Stop. What’s that one?’ I ask, suddenly.
It’s a hatchback in electric blue, with big wheels, a wing on the back and bucket seats. It looks sporty and fun, exactly the sort of car the new me should have. I look at the price and, although it’s a bit more than I’d set as my budget, I can still afford it.
‘That’s a Fiesta ST. It’s the sports model of the range. It’s, umm, pretty fast. Are you sure?’
Oh, Grant, and you were doing so well up until now too. I smile at him coquettishly. ‘What’s the matter, Grant? Don’t you think I can handle it?’
Suitably chastened, he goes off to find the keys. Half an hour later the test drive is complete and we’re back in the showroom. Apart from one slightly hairy moment, when I put my foot down and it took off like a scalded cat (Grant wasn’t wrong, it really is fast), the Fiesta and I got on famously. We’re now starting the process of ‘doing the deal’, and Grant is walking me through the finance options.
‘Actually, I was planning to pay the whole amount up front and buy the car outright,’ I interrupt.
I can see the surprise flicker across his face but, give him his dues, he changes tack smoothly. It’s another hour before I leave the showroom, having paid a deposit, completed all the paperwork and arranged to pick the car up on Saturday afternoon after I’ve transferred the balance. I reckon that Dad would have struggled to get a better deal than I just have. I knew I wasn’t going to get anything for the Micra, so I wasn’t insulted by the £100 he offered for it in part-exchange, but I managed to get a decent discount on the Fiesta, along with the first two services thrown in, and the all-important floor mats.
‘How did you get on? Did you buy anything?’ my father asks when I get home.
‘Yes, it was fine. I’m picking it up on Saturday.’
