My Single friend by Jane Costello

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

            Henry isn’t the sort of customer the award-winning and terrifyingly trendy salon Cut is used to. Even I feel intimidated and, unlike Henry, I haven’t got hair that could be home to several species of wild bird eggs. Everyone else looks so perfect they must get up at 4 a.m. to style themselves.

            I’m in the place for two and a half seconds before I dig out my woolly hat and pull it on my head, tucking in stray strands so no one can see them. It isn’t even that cold outside, despite being mid-January, and is even warmer in here. But without it on, I have a sudden fear I may be mistaken for a mop head.

            After a morning’s shopping, Erin and Dominique have left Henry in my capable hands for this part of the process, before we regroup this evening. We’re shown to two seats at the back of the salon, where we wait obediently.

            ‘No point trying to hide it . . . I saw those roots when you came in,’ sing-songs a voice as my hat is whipped off and a pair of hands starts rummaging around as if examining my scalp for nits.

            ‘What have we here? Light-blonde highlights with a touch of caramel . . . hmm, I think we need to take you a shade or two lighter. Never be afraid to add a dash of drama to your hair. And, dear God, you need those ends seeing to. Who cut this last?’

            I look in the mirror at my assessor. He’s slightly-built with a pinched nose, pouty lips and a fringe bearing about a ton and a half of Elnet.

            ‘You did it, actually. Why, is it crap?’ is what I want to say. Only I haven’t the guts to carry off the lie, particularly as I hacked at my fringe with nail scissors when it was getting into my eyes a couple of weeks ago and I’d never pass it off as professional.

            ‘Actually, I’m not your customer,’ I whimper instead. ‘He is.’

            The stylist looks at Henry and gasps.

            Henry smiles, unfazed. ‘Hi.’

            ‘Dear God, help me,’ the stylist replies, picking up a copy of Tatler and fanning his face. ‘Hi. I’m Anton.’

            The name isn’t entirely convincing, given the Norris Green accent, but I’m not going to argue.

            ‘Our friend Dominique recommended you,’ I tell him, deciding to namedrop to distract him from Henry’s head.

            ‘Dominique?’ he smiles. ‘The woman whose libido makes me look like Mother Teresa.’

            I consider jumping to Dom’s defence but decide she’d probably agree anyway. ‘She sent us because we’re giving Henry a makeover and she says you’re the only man for the job. According to Dominique, you’re the best in the business.’

            He rolls his eyes and smiles. ‘I don’t like to blow my own trumpet . . .’

            A stylist walking past sniggers.

            ‘Ignore her,’ continues Anton. ‘Right, Enrico, let’s have a look.’ He takes a step back and studies Henry’s hair with intense concentration. ‘I think we need something slightly avant garde . . .’

            ‘Great!’ says Henry, as alarm bells go off in my head.

            ‘I’m not sure avant garde is quite what we’re after,’ I add hastily.

            Anton fires me a withering look. ‘Oh. Quite what are you after?’

            ‘Something sexy. And simple. Something that will make him instantly fanciable.’

            Anton’s face softens. ‘Okay. I can do instantly fanciable. Right, dear: tell me what products you’re currently using.’

            I can’t help but snigger.

            ‘Products?’ asks Henry.

            ‘You know: gels, mousses, serums?’

            ‘Nothing,’ says Henry.

            ‘Hmmm. I should have guessed that. Well, from now on you will be using them. We’ll have you looking like Josh Hartnett in no time.’

            ‘I rather liked Orlando Broom’s hair,’ says Henry.

            ‘Bloom,’ I hiss, wondering if he does this deliberately.

            Henry is ushered to the sinks to get his hair washed by a sixteen-year-old with an approach to shampooing like a WWE wrestler. After pummelling his head for five minutes she proceeds to give him an ‘Indian head massage’, using slow, rhythmic movements with a semi-pornographic expression on her face.

            Henry’s escorted to the mirror and Anton begins his work. It takes half an hour and some of the most flamboyant scissor action I’ve ever seen, but the results are impressive.

            It’s short, but not too short. Shiny, but not too shiny. The style, in Anton’s words, is a ‘sexy-messy, just-showered, natural look that shouldn’t take more than ten minutes to achieve’.

            Henry is shocked. ‘How long?’

            ‘All you have to do,’ says Anton patiently, ‘is avoid combing your hair when you step out of the shower –’

            ‘I can do that,’ says Henry proudly.

            ‘– and instead, apply the gel and moderately mess up your hair. You know you’ve got it right if it looks like your lover has run their hands through it.’

            Henry flashes me a look. I smile encouragingly.

            ‘Don’t worry,’ I say confidently. ‘It won’t be long before you’re very familiar with that.’