WAITING IT OUT…

I see women come out of the hairdresser’s with a spring in their gait, a toss of their head …a head full of shiny swinging tresses, looking all confident as if they could just take on the world and all its niggly fiddly problems. Well…I wonder why it’s never happened to me. Every time I step out of the hair salon, I cower behind my sunglasses, sink into my clothes and dash home to wash out the disaster. It’s somehow never what I want it to be… all wiggy and stiff or… flat and straight and I never once came out of the hair salon thinking…`ah they got it right this time.’…and if they did, it lasted till midday and then just collapsed on my face and made my nose tickle.

Well the other day I went to get my hair trimmed and the roots coloured to boost my confidence and give it that little oomph… but I was dreading it…the sitting around and frittering away my time while they performed a kind of multi- tasking…So there I was slumped in the seat, twiddling my thumbs a fair bit until the Maitre d’ of the salon, the one in charge, the hair stylist whom I’ve known for ages…but still makes me wait, graced me with her presence, looked over my head and rattled off the usual things she was going to do and then…more thumb twiddling and scrolling on my phone…together with a dozen other waiting ladies. Finally the salon assistants, a bunch of chatty girls, rushed in with this bowl and daubed in the colour on my greying roots, smudging it on thickly… `How many minutes?’ I asked before they could scoot off and leave me sitting there…`Half an hour!’ came the reply…and off they scurried away attending to various customers for a couple of minutes and then running off to others to brush up on the roots and then to yet others to paint on some flashes and wrap them up in foil and park the poor women there…waiting for… Godot… looking like characters from some futuristic movie. In the midst of all that, the hair stylist fluttered around to snip a little here and a little there and indulge in a little gossip and all the while hairdryers were blasting away in the background and frying the air and not to mention brains and discharging all these positive ions…you could almost see them crackling in the air…the culprits of mighty headaches and frazzled nerves.  After half an hour I kept glancing at my watch and then at them to signal that the time was up and others were doing the same and they ignored us all. I was beginning to wonder if my hair was going to melt off at the roots. Finally they signalled for me to head to the wash basin and I felt like the…CHOSEN FEW. I came back dripping but relieved because half the battle was won…but I still had more leg shaking to do…feeling a little cold in the head…waiting for the snip…that would either make me or mar me.

The thing about hair is this…It doesn’t just define your face…but your very being. Good hair is so uplifting…Bring on the challenges thick and fast and you breeze through them effortlessly with the wind in your hair. And the lengths people go to get this crowning glory to behave. Nobody can figure out how Donald gets his golden mane to sit on his head like a `bicycle helmet’ … a remarkable `feat of engineering’ so they say. Boris’ hair, however, sits on the other end of the spectrum…` a product of random and competing forces of nature.’ as he puts it… One world leader called him…`wild and woolly’…and I’m not sure whether he meant his hair or his thoughts or both. ..a dishevelled head lost in a cloud of confusion. Neither Golden Fleece nor Bojo got any kudos on their brand of politics and I’m wondering if it comes down to hair…Bad hair can usher in untold woes.

I used to read this Indian philosopher…I’m not mentioning his name because he’s gone now and I’m afraid he might just come back and hide in corners and  haunt me for what I’m about to say. Anyway his thoughts are so profound. He would say things like…you’re not the colour of your hair or you’re not who you think you are etc etc…and the just the other day his face popped out on You tube…the wonders of technology…long gone and still looking so alive. I wasn’t going to listen to him or anything like that because he takes so long to utter those gems of wisdom and I was afraid he would frown at my worldly and morbid obsession with my hair…YOU ARE NOT YOUR HAIR… and  I should instead be cleaning up my spiritual act…getting it all shiny and squeaky. Anyway, something caught my eye and I looked again and scrutinized the picture carefully. The parting on his head was visible just above his ear and all those fine silvery silken strands were swept up carefully from both sides of the head and weaved together and plastered on top of…what looked like…a bald crown. PHEW!!!!…I felt vindicated and could now indulge freely without remorse or shame.

So back to the `waiting room’…she came with scissors poised in the air and at that point I was completely waited out and wasted to give any instructions…she never listened anyway. When she saw me all meek and humble she offered to give me…instead of the usual `bala’… a bob in the shape of a ball… lots of `mee-tes’…lots of pointy tips…something like Bojo’s…just the tips mind you…to give me that free and windswept look. I quite liked that suggestion although I couldn’t imagine how my curly mop could transform that way…but I was exhausted and open to suggestion and saw no harm in hoping.

The end result…Not only did she give me a head full of `mee-tes’…at some point I wondered if she had just chucked away the scissors and bitten off the ends when I was not looking… but she also layered my hair above the ears and tapered the rest down and… after they had blown it up with the layered sides sticking out… it didn’t look like a `bala’ but more like a Christmas tree and I couldn’t wash out the disaster…and I’m just sitting here and waiting it out…for it to grow itself out…at least by the time we go off to Brussels in a few weeks. I wouldn’t want to give little Louise a fright.

So cheers till the next time…sometime in December when we get back.