Calamity Jane #6 - Sixth Circle of Hell (Sacrilege)

Sometime around 1988 Public Enemy roared ‘Don’t believe the hype’ down the microphone amidst police sirens, fierce looking dogs, burnt out cars, a boy on a bike with one side of his t-shirt draped loosely over one shoulder with his hair uncombed under an enlarged baseball cap, and the usual rigmarole that marks a hip hop video!

How true Public Enemy’s words ring as I recall the stories my friends (almost smug in their delivery), have told me of their wonderfully punctual hairdressers, who called if they were running late, offered them tea or coffee when they arrived, attended to them and only them throughout the duration of their appointment and advised them how to look after their hair and the best products to use in between visits to the salon.  Ha!!! Well I didn’t believe them then and I don’t believe them now. I know our fate and no amount of self deception can lull me in to a false sense of security.

One such perpetrator of this delusional ‘delightful hairdresser’ syndrome as I call it, was my best buddy, Yinka, whose soul aim in life was to condemn my choice in hairdresser; despite the fact that she always praised my hair, but believed the sacrifice in attaining the style was simply too great. In Yinka’s defence, she was always the one I called in floods of tears, in a rage, on the verge of murder and the all the other aggressive emotions, Keesha had managed to bring out in me. So she had a slightly compromised view of her.

Now I am not one to revel in the misfortunes of others, but I recall a tale or two about Yinka’s misfortunes at hairdressers, that make my tales pale in to insignificance. Of course these had been consigned to the dustbin of history (as far as Yinka is concerned) but for today I have reclaimed them to disprove the ‘delightful hairdresser’ syndrome once and forever.

Up at the crack of dawn, (I’m spotting a theme here of us waking up earlier than the light, just to make it to the salon – only to wait some more) Yinka makes her way to Camberwell for ‘appointment’ at the hair salon. At £25 for a weave it’s more of a conveyor belt than a salon. Camberwell is a typical cosmopolitan south London suburb yet to experience regeneration. Pockets have been gentrified, usually where the white people live, but the high street where the black folks dwell, resembles any sprawling African market. Therefore seeing Yinka and her kin folk, sat queuing from 8am outside a hair salon which is yet to open (on a stool she has brought from home), on the sidewalk of the busy high street was as common a sight as plantain in Peckham. 

Women came prepared, some having brought porridge, flasks of hot tea, carnation milk, books and magazines for entertainment (the black girl scouts). Whilst others (the inexperienced first timers) stood shivering, mouths parched, afraid to run to the shop across the road for fear of losing their spot in the queue. No bond of female solidarity was going to make a sister hold another sisters place in the line. In this pre dawn battle of the will, being prepared counts, as it’s every woman for herself.  The doors finally opened and the bargain basement weave shop is ready for business. With only three girls on the early shift, it meant at least another 1.5 hours wait before Yinka is finally seen; at least she’s inside, having been rescued from her stool on the street corner.  

On another occasion in another hair salon across town in New Cross, where the pre-dawn queuing on a stool was a thing of the past and the service was professional (other than the lecherous husband of the salon owner who thought customer service meant inviting Yinka on a date when his wife was out of sight). The delusional ‘delightful hairdresser syndrome’ was as close to reality as Yinka had imagined. Until a bi-weekly appointment went horribly wrong and brought the delightful hairdresser dream crashing down…

Having had the same conservative hair style for many years, which suited but didn’t inspire her, Yinka decided to embrace a new look. After very specifically explaining her vision to her hairdresser, using magazine cut outs as a visual guide, Yinka was aghast to find her hairdresser proceeded to cut her hair into a style SHE saw fit and ‘hacked it bald’  (to use her words exactly). In reality it was more of a bob, so high at the back it resembled T-Boz’s (TLC) circa 1990’s cut, which back when Yinka was 12 years old was all the rage, but a bit of an anomaly in the city of London age 28 in the late noughties.

A year of perpetual hair braiding followed, until the damage was suitably repaired!

Ladies no more lies. No more pretending to one another. Rich or poor; high end salon in Knightsbridge or back street shanty in Peckham, lets embrace the inevitable humiliation, anger, rage together – why oh why do these hairdressers do this to us?.

CJ