Hair today...............

Well, you wanted to hear my hair disaster story so here goes. It is going to be a pretty long read although I have condensed it as much as I can. As I mentioned previously I started colouring my hair immediately I left school. By the time I was nineteen I had been platinum for two years. Now, I must explain, I have always had poker straight hair. I was not blessed with the waves that adorned the heads of my two older brothers. I think this annoyed my mother because by the age of ten years of age I had my first perm!

At the time the disaster happened my hair was completely straight and of medium length. I was sick of it. My friend Cathy and I had booked to go on holiday to Spain and I wanted to look different and more glamorous. Well, I certainly ended up looking different.

I decided to perm my bleached hair. Yes, I can hear all you ladies sharply drawing in your breath. Remember, I was nineteen at the time and at that age you never consider the consequences of your actions. I tried to be as careful as I could, money was tight and I was saving for the holiday, so I decided to do it myself or rather ask Cathy to do it. I scoured the shops for a perm that would be suitable for bleached hair and I found one that said it was.

One Saturday morning, my Mother being out shopping and my Father busy with work he had brought home from the office, Cathy came around and agreed to assist.

                                 

Considering she had never done hair before she was quite adept at putting in all the perm curlers. The lotion went on and we waited being careful not to overdo the time. We were chatting about the holiday and I was eagerly awaiting my new look.. The moment came and Cathy began unwinding the curlers. She went very quiet and suddenly stopped. I think she was struck speechless. I looked into the sink and saw the curlers she had removed lying there - with my hair wrapped around them! Panic is not the word. She had no choice but to remove the rest and my hair with it. What was  left was a nightmare. I looked into the mirror and saw my hair had broken off at various lengths ranging from about four inches to half an inch and not evenly. Not only that but most of it and especially the ends were a strange pinky/mauve.

I stood and cried, Cathy stood and cried, she keep apologizing as though it was her fault. I knew it was not. She had done it all by the book. By this time it was lunchtime and I heard my Mother’s key in the door. How was I going to face her? I wrapped a towel around my head and went downstairs. Our faces said it all. My mother asked me to remove the towel. She took one look, stood and screamed, that made me scream, Lord knows why and then Cathy screamed and fled without even grabbing her jacket.

We had no phone in the house in those days. Saturday afternoon, could we find a hairdresser to help in any way? My mother ran to the local phone box and made endless calls. All were fully booked except one -  a twenty minute bus journey away. I had to approach my Dad for some money. He took one look at my head and did not know whether to laugh or cry but could not say much as Mum was always doing things with her hair as well. He handed over the cash. Mum refused to come with me, taking the stance that I had got myself into this mess, I could get myself out. Maybe it would teach me a lesson.

Well, I set out on the very long walk up our road to the bus stop looking like Mata Hari. I had a scarf wound tightly around my head, dark glasses (wonder why I thought they would help?). I  had and often wore a trench coat in those days and I had the collar turned right up although it was a warm day. I must have looked very furtive standing out from all those around me who were wearing light clothing and bareheaded.  I felt the whole world was watching me.

The wait for the bus seemed endless . On the journey to the hairdresser all I could think about was what if they could not help me. I was working in the legal office in Whitehall, London. How could I face them on Monday? It would take weeks to grow out. I would be fired if I appeared like that.

The salon was above a shop and I climbed the stairs with shaking knees. Of course my mother had given them rough details but I do not think even they expected the apparition that appeared before them when I divested myself of my disguise. The place was packed and all eyes fixed on me. Some were obviously suppressing giggles and that included the stylists.

The manager himself decided to take me on. He was outrageously camp, long before the days when you could be open about it and he was also very cockney. "Oh my Gawd, duckie, what 'ave you been and gawn and done. " He plonked me down on a chair in the middle of the room and proceeded to mince around me, arms folded but with his fingers to his chin making various exclamations.  He kept breaking off to pick up various strands of my hair. "Well, we aint gotta  lot ta work wiv duckie but I fink I can 'ave you lookin' better going aht than coming in, mind you, duckie,  I 'ave to cut it all orf first." Cut it off? It was only half an inch in some places already.

                                

 (You know, dear readers, it is making me laugh  as I write this because now I have my hair exactly half an inch long all over as you know but by choice and not by accident,  so the wheel has come full circle).

Well, he may have been outrageous and my heart was in my mouth as he snipped and trimmed all the time keeping up a running commentary about "er" and "she" (meaning me) to his assistants and customers and I found myself looking like Jean Seberg from Joan of Arc, but he did get shape back into it. Then there was a very long discussion about what sort of tints he could apply to hide the pink that remained.

                                 

I am not kidding you when I say that customers whose hair was long finished and who should have gone home all decided to stay and see the outcome. I sat there like a specimen in a laboratory.

It was an agonizing wait for the tint to take and tobe honest, when it was finished I had never seen a colour quite like it and have never seen it since. It was a sort of silvery, beige/mushroom. Quite striking. In fact, some of the women said it was lovely and asked if they could have their hair that colour. "Not unless yer wanna burn your bleedin' 'air off first" said Charles creasing himself with laughter.  In fact Charles was  delighted - he positively pranced. He had invented  a new colour by mixing several tints together and was happy with his handiwork. I could not thank him enough. At least I looked human again and not something out of a horror film.

Many people stared as I went home on the bus. Not only because of the unusual colour but women then simply did not wear their hair that short. However, I was much heartened when I got some flirting from a couple of young men.

So, on the Monday morning, I determined to hold my head high and set off to work as usual. Strangely it seemed to attract more glances from men than I had ever had  before. Luckily it grew a little before I went to Spain and I found the Spaniards loved it as well judging by the number of heads I turned. I found myself very popular on that holiday and not just with Spaniards.

Not long afterwards, very short hair for women became all the rage. See, I told you I used to be a trendsetter!

Had fun writing this, hope you have fun reading it.  Have a lovely weekend.

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