Half life
Hair cut crisis
Carole Morin
Ihave always known I'll die in a car crash while driving alone in laned traffic. Of course I could be making a mistake. There's a hideous possibility I will die in my sleep. But just in case my traffic theory is true, I walked down Park Lane yesterday on my way to the hairdresser's. People in cars were giving me funny looks because it's one of those roads you're supposed to drive down.
Passing through the shadow created by the Dorchester Ballroom, a chip-eating schoolboy asked me: 'Do you give wanks with your lips?' You bought your lobotomy in the wrong shop,' I replied. Presumably from the suburbs. I couldn't expect him to know I was having a Chanel day — follow- ing Coco's rule not to be seen in public without a hat and stockings — but if I'm his idea of a prostitute an identity crisis is on the cards for that boy. Taking me for a tart makes him the customer: a serious self- image delusion since his hair and clothes make it obvious he's living on pocket money.
Haircuts change your life, usually for the worse, so it's essential to choose a salon that serves champagne. I'd made an appointment at Nicky Clarke's because his licensed shop is walking distance from my building. Entering his Mount Street premis- es, I tried to forget that I've seen Nicky on daytime television converting fat frumps into 'somebody new' with a lot of help from his blowdryer and hairspray. Male stylists are supposed to be up all night perfecting their look, but poor Nick hasn't caught on: it's impossible for a man to be sexy without short hair and a dark suit. Since he resem- bles a baboon in a bouffant wig, I'm lucky I can't afford to have him shear me. I'm mak- ing do with one of his creative directors.
Usually Monsieur Donaldo — who dou- bles up as my husband, Dangerous Donald, when not holding the Japanese scissors — cuts my hair at home: but he's been too big for his boots since Shena Mackay told him, 'You have the charm of a young Frank Sinatra.' According to Donaldo, Frankie wouldn't be seen dead trimming his wife's split ends.
The Creative Director made eye contact with me in the mirror whispering, 'You're so thin.' Unfortunately I'm a fat frump's idea of thin — not a hairdresser's. He was admiring himself. Standing around all day wittering and twittering evidently consumes quite a few calories. 'What are you having?' he asked. 'A glass of champagne,' I said. 'I meant with your hair, Miss.' I explained my aspirations with the help of a sketch. He smiled at me the way loonies who think they're sane look at sane people who they think are loonies before ordering a grinning girl with a long torso to shampoo me. 'I'm Marilyn,' she said. 'What's your name?' I can't remember.' I give a false name when making hair appointments because I stabbed a hairdresser 'somewhere in May- fair' according to my mother, when I was two. Maddie had taken me to be converted into 'a wee Emma Peel' but the result was closer to Dennis the Menace. 'The wee one stuck the scissors in the stylist's neck and the boss forced us to leave without paying.' Maddie warned Monsieur Donaldo on the phone, after hearing about his snipping skills.
Marilyn escorted me, dripping, back to the Creative Director's mirror where a bust of Plato was overshadowing the scissors and combs. 'What's he doing here?' I asked. 'That's Nicky Clarke,' Marilyn said. 'He owns this salon.' I've seen Nicky Clarke on television and he looks nothing like Plato.' 'I'll fetch you a magazine,' she said, giggling even though I hadn't told a joke. The out- of-date issue of Vogue did nothing to relieve the tedium of the cut and blow. It takes a lot of time being gorgeous, so much sitting around doing nothing. Afterwards, I was still myself in the mir- ror behind reception. 'Who did you have today?' the glam woman taking the money asked. 'The skinny guy,' I said. 'Looks like it,' she replied, giving me my bill. Leaving the sensual sado-masochistic world of beauty for another day, I wondered if Plato wanted hairdressers in his Republic.
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