The Hair To The Throne

I am the hair to the throne of my hairdresser mother and two aunts. This is when I get entangled in the roots of my legacy.

This is the time of year when you are more likely to walk into a salon and obstinately demand the in-cut for the new season, even though it doesn’t really suit you. This will inevitably end up with you paying good money for a haircut that for the next month will be hidden under a capacious hat. But then, have you ever wondered why it is so generally unacceptable to wear your own natural hair without the tint, the perms, the slicing, the thinning, the straightening, the fringe or heaven forbid the gel, the wax, or the spray?

I don’t know whether it is because I come from a family of hairdressers, or because I’m somewhat blessed with good-enough natural hair, but I’ve lately come to a point where the least salon miles I give my hair, the better I feel. I’ve gone from having to have my hair dyed, blow dried, straightened or permed, to a simple washing and brushing regime.
I come from a matriarchal generation of hairdressers, so when the editor suggested that I write something about being a hairdressing victim, I knew that there were consequences to be had. You see, it is beyond me to be serious about most matters, and poking fun at my ancestors’ profession does not auger well. But for the love of self-inflicted harm, here is my story as a hairdressing casualty.

It was my mother who over thirty years ago started off the family’s hairdressing legacy. At the time, she sported blonde, velvety hair that was spaghetti-straight and went down to under her buttocks. Her perfect hair must have had people pining over it, and getting into hairdressing must have been a natural progression. Soon after, her two younger sisters followed suit, and today, three decades later, they are all hair stylists, beauty therapists, and pretty much have hair on their brain all the time.

Eventually my mother and one of her sisters – a splitting image of each other – went on to open their own hairdressing salon, getting married to guys with the same name, and having two children each, in that order. My cousins and I were brought up in a salon full of groomed, opinionated women who on a weekly basis had a lot to do to their hair and a lot of information to share.
Salon d’Elegance, as it is still called three decades later, was originally designed in the early 70s. It featured your typical green vinyl sofa with matching oval hairdryers, dubbed green alien heads. These contraptions blew titanic amounts of hot air, so cotton wool balls had to be stuffed into the clients’ ears to avoid grilling their ear drum. Once under one of these dryers it was absolutely impossible to hear a thing, but still entirely possible to talk and sing at the top of your lungs, regardless of everything else that was going on.

The salon’s main features were three rotating chairs that faced an enormous wall to wall mirror with white bulbs all around its perimeter. The seats were upholstered in spotted yellow and black linoleum, and the reflection from the mirror gave every customer a clear view of all that was going on in the shop. Probably by accident and not by design, the salon also had a secluded ‘men’s section’ which kept the women in plastic overalls and unsightly rollers discreetly out of sight of the opposite sex.

Up until a few years ago, before the heart wrenching but necessary refurbishment, this was how my mother’s salon looked like, and I loved it. In fact, even though it was always filled with elderly women who remembered me as a child and who pinched my face every time they saw me, I had never visited another hairdressing salon in my life. At first it was because I could not afford to pay the ridiculous rates that new hairdressers were charging, but now it’s because I cannot match the experience that I am accustomed to at my mother’s salon. Of course, growing up I spent many years having to exchange house chores for desired hair styles, but by the time I turned twenty I had experimented with every possible colour, perm, up style, and hair gadget under the sun.
Very short hair cuts were the hardest to negotiate with my mother because she loves hair to the point that she would usually refuse to cut it too short unless absolutely necessary. Telling her that it is my dream, or even my dying wish, simply did not do the trick. In fact for her to go really short, or to shave it off, I needed to have nits, lice, or major chewing gum issues. As a child I stamped my feet and went running to one of my aunts who would give in to my whims and cut my hair as short as I liked, but today I realise that asking my mother – an absolute lover of hair – to cut off hanks of perfectly healthy hair, was like asking me – an absolute lover of words – to cut a story short for editorial style. Because up until very recently I had never ventured out of my mother’s salon, I had never experienced neck-breaking shampoo chairs, boiling and freezing scalp treatments, and the typical sniff, snort and roll of the eyes that I get whenever I tell other hairdressers that I’m not interested in buying any products. Although occasionally I might have had my ear snipped by my mother, an aunt, or both, I never had to endure Patti’s or Gianni’s attempts to reduce uncomplicated clients like me into a cowering mess, with little comments like “Oh! Did you cut your own hair?” or “Did you wash it with soap?”

So, until it becomes illegal for hairdressers to walk away from you with their eyes raised to the ceiling and the back of their hands touching their foreheads, I’m sticking to my simple regime of washing, brushing and the occasional visit to my mother’s salon.

First Published on FM Magazine September 2008