Kia ora koutou, it used to be a breeze – I would book an appointment, go there, have the shampoo and cut, then that was over till the next time. Now my eyesight has deteriorated I have to trust the cutter because I can’t see my hair in the mirror. Over the years I have developed fairly good ideas of what suits my fine wavy all–over–the-place hair but often a hairdresser will think s/he knows better. S/he does not realise that me and my hair are very (very) long time companions, that my hair has a mind of its own. I am simply the spokesperson. I have often wished either that I had a different kind of hair or, failing that, spoke the same language as hairdressers. I’ve tried all sorts of ways to subdue it – the hair I mean – cutting, oiling (hello phantom killer), smoothing with gel (Jeepers no, you look like John Key), I tried those little tin things called butterfly clips (come in Mae West) and I’ve tried ignoring it, but it just goes crazier – you will look at me or I’ll sprout tight little curls like an old home perm.
Did you ever try a ‘home perm‘? I did it once. I didn’t need to, I already had waves and curls, but I wanted to have a home perm like everyone else. I was twenty–four, three kids, I wanted excitement that didn’t come with nappies. It cost a fortune, stunk the house out and the result was horrific. I looked like Minnie Mouse on speed, although at that time the word ‘speed’ only referred to doing 80 miles an hour on the open road. My first car, a Chrysler 4 door, that only did 50 mph when it felt like it, however hard I pressed the pedal, whose driver’s door was tied on with string, and whose driver (me) did not have a licence, meant that the only time I could go out was at the dead of night otherwise every traffic officer within a hundred miles would be following me to have a look. Was it a bird? Was it a plane? Nooo – a home perm in an old Chrysler…. The car’s headlights were, needless to say, shonky, another word you’ve probably not come across, it being from the dark ages eg 1952. Then I won two hundred pounds in the Golden Kiwi and bought a little yellow Volkswagen, also past its use–by date but better than the Chrysler. It had an inbuilt heater too, the engine could get hot very quickly. Which wasn’t so good when I’d just washed my hair because it dried it very fast and made it look like a petrified fern was driving the car. However, there was also no mirror so I didn’t know that until I got back home where I was loved anyway.
I have started going to the Barbers up the road. She is great, she knows I just want a cut, not a shape or a brighten up, dear? but a plain ordinary old cut – and that’s what she does. She accepts the stick, knows I can’t see, does not call me ‘dear,’ or ‘love’ and the price (has to be cash) has stayed the same for years. The only difference now is the masks.
Today I want to celebrate all hairdressers who simply and with great skill, do what their clients want. If they want the same old, they get the same old, if they want a change, then they get a change. One two three, homai te pakipaki…clap hands for the hairdresser you love…
Renée
