Dumped

She’s left me. And she didn’t even have the guts to tell me herself. Her colleague told me over the phone, and I was absolutely gutted. "Would you like to make an appointment with someone else?" she asked. But it was too soon for that. "I – oh – I mean – where has she gone?" I managed to splutter, holding onto my desk for support.
"She’s decided to leave hairdressing to become a teacher."
Two possible reactions presented themselves. I weighed them up for a nanosecond or two. My favoured option was definitely opening my mouth into a perfect circle and shouting, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! How could she leave me?! Tell me where she’s training to be a teacher! I’ll ask if she’ll cut my hair in the evenings!" I decided after some consideration to plump for the second.
"Oh. Well, I’m a bit gutted actually."
The receptionist clucked at me maternally.  I mean, she was probably having to do this over the phone with all of Ava’s clients. "Well, we have other senior stylists at Ava’s level."
"Oh. Okay." (rejected reaction this time was: "But…. NOOOOOOO! No one cuts hair like her!")
"12 noon with Bonnie. Is that ok?"
"Thank you." ("How am I supposed to cope? Do you expect me to get off the phone and get on with my work now? Do you offer counselling?")
"Thank you. See you Saturday. Goodbye!"
"Goodbye." ("May you rot in hell! Whatever you all did or didn’t do, the things you said or didn’t say…you made her leave, and now she’s gone and she’s never coming back and I never even properly told her that I loved her haircuts!")

I think it’s fair to say that I have a fairly emotional relationship with my hair. It began at an early age. When I was around seven, I was steeped in Enid Blyton stories, mainlining Famous Five to such an extent that I decided, apropos of nothing, that I wanted all my hair cut off. Yes, it makes my feminist self weep to admit it: I wanted to be just like George. ‘As good as a boy any day.’

Then, having rejected this new idea pretty quickly, and having been through the protracted pain that is growing out a short hair cut when you’re only small and even a week is, just, honestly, absolutely ages… After that I went through a phase of getting my hair bobbed every summer. Every winter I would let it grow a bit, then in summer I’d waltz in with my hair kicking in a bored way around my shoulders, and leave with my neck feeling all cold and exposed, with blunt pieces of hair slapping against my face. I used to like sliding my fingers down my newly cut hair, and feeling how quickly they’d fall off the ends. That bit, I liked. The bit in the hairdressers was torture. I’d veer wildly from panic to fret, to stress, thinking to myself, "She’s not cutting enough off! I’ve wasted all this time, and no one will even know I’ve had it cut!….It’s too short! I’m going to look ridiculous…." and back and forth and back and forth until I was exhausted.

Then came what I consider to be a pretty formative haircut. I was seventeen. A bad age to be when your hairdresser starts to look nervous. Of this, the least said the better, but let’s just summarise by saying that when I went in, I had hair that was so long, it was pretty much down to my elbows. What I said I wanted were layers around my face. What he did was to comb my hair forward and to cut straight across in a blunt line, so that all I could see was chin-length hair. (In a strange pre-cursor to my conversation this week with the receptionist, my internal dialogue was weeping and swearing and shouting, while externally I continued to smile brightly, and to make polite small talk.)

I have never met a woman who didn’t hate her hair. I have always hated mine. My hair has always been perfectly straight. Thick and poker straight. My hair has a great relationship with gravity, and a flighty, non-commital relationship with curling tongs. I spent most of the mid-nineties staring at my hair with a disgruntled expression, alternately tormenting it with a combination of Elnett and rag-rollers, and then endlessly asking myself / my friends / god why it was that I hadn’t been given Rachel’s hair from Friends.

And then I met Ava. I went into a hair dressers that was far too expensive. She sat me down and offered me a cup of tea. She started to snip, and then my life changed forever. Before Ava, I was frightened of having my hair layered. Perhaps remembering that seventeen year old moment when the hair dresser stepped back from the chair, slapped his closed scissors against his open palm contemplatively, and said slowly, "I think I might have cut it a bit short." Perhaps because of the memory of hairdressers who’d try to layer my hair, and leave odd shaggy bits round by my ears. Ava layered my hair, and – honestly – it just looked fabulous. I knew I was onto a winner, when she was near the end of the haircut, picking it up around the roots and ruffling it up, and tidying up a few stray ends. I looked to my right and saw the woman in the chair next to mine staring enviously at me. Her look said, "Look at your beautiful haircut. I want to be you."

I bounced and flicked my way out of the hairdressers. I tossed my head in the tube. I shook my locks over my shoulders. I all but danced down the street to a Stu-stu-stu-studio line saxophone, a la that great advert from the 80s. I rhapsodied to anyone who would stop long enough to listen. "I’ve met someone! She’s changed my life! I’m never going to get my hair cut by anyone else ever again!"

The next time I went there, I bounded in joyfully, and sat down. "Hello Ava. I love you. You made me love my hair. This haircut even looks good now that it’s grown out. Please do exactly the same thing again. Name your price. Never leave me." (well, it may have been more like, "Same again, please," now I think about it)

And now she’s gone. Once I’d put the phone down, my howl of desolation stopped the office in their tracks.
"She’s left the hairdresser’s! What shall I do now?"
One colleague was quietly sympathetic, "Oh no! It’s so hard to find a good hairdresser!"
Another laughed (I may sack him), "What are you like? Just get someone else to cut your hair!"
I turned to him coolly, "Look. You can’t say that. This isn’t just a hairdresser. It’s an emotional relationship! That’s like saying, ‘just get another husband’. It’s just not that easy."

My appointment is at 12 tomorrow. I’m not sure I’m ready for this….

yours trepiditiously,
therumtumtugger
xxxxx