Fran Landsman
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Shirley lived alone above the salon. Every morning she came downstairs and admired the set of pink nylon gowns that tied at the neck, the three pink domed Bakelite hair dryers which hovered over the three black leatherette chairs, and the two shiny white porcelain sinks designed so her ladies could lie back in luxury. The air contained a pungent tang of peroxide and perfume that was both noxious and comforting.
All the ladies who came into the salon arrived with their lifeless thin hair flattened under a headscarf or covered by a hat. They left bouffanted and rosey-cheeked. Shirley liked to think she treated all her clients like royalty. They were offered tea in china cups, they were fussed over and listened to for an hour a week. Shirley knew how they looked forward to it, and she didn’t let them down.
Everything was spotless. The taps gleamed, the mirrors sparkled, and only the deep red blots on the dyeing towels seemed slightly sordid. No amount of boiling would do the trick. She didn’t want her clients to be reminded of death, even though it was the main topic of conversation.
Shirley bought the towels to match the gowns and the freshly laundered ones were neatly folded on a shelf. The stained ones lay hidden in a drawer. They reminded her of the gore splattered butchers aprons of her childhood.
“No one buys meat in a proper butchers any more,” she said to Janine, the junior.
“I’m veggie,” Janine reminded her sullenly. She didn’t lift her head but continued to sweep the delicate hair clippings with a pink dustpan and brush. The hair was fragile, soft and the colour of chalk. Shirley knew that Janine, like all the other work experience girls, dreamt of a future in the centre of town where she could ask clients if they were going anywhere special, and they’d say yes. She’d choose a trendy salon where the shampoo would smell of coconut and dewberries. Janine wanted to do hair extensions, weaves and scrunch dries - Shirley’s customers wanted to look like the Queen.
As Janine tipped the dustpan into the bin the clippings fell like feathers to the bottom of the rose scented plastic bag. The odd few strands floated upwards on the breeze as if refusing to be buried.
It was true that Janine longed for glamour not on offer at Shirley’s, but when it came to washing hair she had already proved herself second to none. The ladies swooned at her firm touch. She anointed them with cool conditioner and her chapped hands rubbed slowly round and round bringing a long forgotten tingle to the core of their beings.
After two weeks Janine had learnt the correlation between time spent shampooing and size of tip. But still she complained daily about the cracked skin between her fingers. On this matter Shirley would not relent. She wouldn’t allow the use of rubber gloves in her establishment, except for tinting of course. She didn’t want her ladies to feel rejected - like a bowl of washing up. It was vital human contact and it was all part of the service.
Janine worked her magic on May’s bony scalp. The shampoo smelt of coal tar and it no doubt cleared May’s nasal passages as well as it washed her hair. She breathed deeply and wore a beatific smile. Janine, on the other hand, chewed gum and looked bored.