The Haircut

Upon arriving in Melbourne, almost immediately we were delighted with our decision to move here.  The people were lovely, the scenery was lovely, and the prices were lovely.  

The trams were weird.  We spent the first week causing havoc near the CBD trying to work out what bits of the road we could drive on, and what bits we couldn’t.  Who we were supposed to give way to, who we weren’t.  What those funny “hook turns” meant, what those railway-line things are for and what happens if you pass a tram when he’s stopped to let off passengers.

(As it turns out:  you’re not supposed to just pull out and drive past on the inside lane.  This was first time we experienced a slip in the impeccable Victorian manners)

The only thing we weren’t so impressed with was the price of beauty.  Perhaps I’m too entrenched in the Richmond lifestyle now, but the cheapest haircut I could find was $55 and I was not happy.  I have approximately 3 square cm of hair on my head, which would equate to about $5 for every snip of the scissors.  Or at a push, $11 per minute with my Breville ladyshave.

After complaining loudly for about an hour, moping around our apartment, pouting at Murmie and bemoaning how hideous I was going to look on my first day at my new job, Neil purely from the kindness of his heart did what he does best - trawled the internet for the best price. 
He was muttering something under his breath as I hovered over him jabbing at the screen and yelling at some of the more outrageous prices,  I’m pretty sure he was saying that he really needed a haircut as well.

After about four hours, he struck gold. 

“The Academy”.   

Where all great wayward teens go to claim their Centrelink Allowance and pretend they’re interested in becoming hairdressers. 

At $8 a haircut, what could possibly go wrong?

After ringing to make a booking (to our utter amazement they managed to squeeze us in) we negotiated our way into town with plenty of time to find a park.  Suffice to say, we were stunned when we found one so quickly.  I was unsure if I should believe what the GPS was telling me, certain it was getting muddled with all the buildings around, distorting reception.  After a 20 minute walk from our car park to the correct address, I vowed to trust the GPS a little bit less from now on.

Upon arrival at The Academy, we parted with our $16 and took a seat to wait.  There was a mother there with her son waiting as well, but other than that didn’t appear to be much of a queue.  Sweet,  6pm now, we should be outta here by 7pm at the latest.

Within a nanosecond of sitting down, the little boy made his way over to Neil, who had gotten his phone out to check something.

Bear in mind, back then we’d only had our lovely, shiny, smart, amazing new toys for about a week, so we were still a bit precious with them.

“What games have you got?  What’s on there?  What are you looking at, can I see?”

Looking like he’s the subject of an FBI pursuit, Neil tries to turn his phone off and in his panic doesn’t succeed.

“Um, yeah, there’s no games on here mate, it’s not really a toy”

“Yeah... see, right there?  You’ve got Angry Birds!  See!  Just there!”

I stifle a giggle and look all innocent.  “Oh wow!  What a cool phone!  I wish I had one of those...”  Big sigh.

An innocent man chooses that moment to join us in the waiting area. 

“Hey look!” says Neil.  “I think that guy has Angry Birds on his phone!”

Two minutes later, we find out the boy is called David.  And he’s six.  And he’s got toy cars here.  Along with toy monsters.  And toy railway tracks.

Oh no, wait.  The toy railway tracks are imaginary.  As are the bombs, the people, the mountains and the fish.

4 minutes later I’ve run out of patience with David.  He’s loud, he’s obnoxious, and well… really, he’s just a pain in the arse.  His mother is reading a magazine and is not the slightest bit interested in what her son is up to.  I’m pretty sure, just quietly, that she thinks he’s a pain in the arse as well.

20 minutes later I get to go and sit in a chair and have my haircut.  So does David’s mum.

40 minutes later, so does Neil.   The entire state of Victoria heard the sigh of relief when the young lady came over to him and asked him to take a seat at the mirror.  I do believe that after the 40-Minute-Drop-The-Imaginary-Frog-Off-The-Table-Sixty-Three-Times-In-A-Row-David-Experience Neil might love my girls just that teeny bit more.  He might even now be willing to play dress-ups - WITH make-up - at a push.

Unfortunately, David follows him to the chair.

I’m far enough away that the trainee looking after me can give me all the gossip.

So, omigod, turns out David’s mum has three older kids, and, like, her hubby left her when the kids were younger, the kids have all started to leave home so, like whoah, suffering from empty-nest-syndrome, she decided she wanted to have another kid, and oh. my. gawd,  she goes to a sperm bank, gets some ammo, and along comes David, and, like, did I mention she’s 50,  they come into the salon ALL the time, David gets, like, totally ignored while Mum gets streaks, like, totally.

Or highlights.   Or foils.  Or whatever fancy name they have now 

The hairdressers can’t stand him and the furniture can’t withstand him.  And now he’s well and truly ensconced by Neil’s side.

A pleasant 45 minutes passes by for me, as my trainee checks every second snip with her supervisor before snipping it, and fills me in on all the wonders of Melbourne.

A torturous 65 minutes drags on for Neil, as his trainee tries to kick David and push him away while her supervisor is not looking, and David fills Neil in on all the wonders of the contents of his nostrils.

When we finally walk out the door at 8.25pm, David’s mum is still sitting in her chair wrapped in bits of foil like a microwaved chicken, and I can’t help but feel a little sorry for him.  They’ve been here since 5.30pm, he’s six years old, and it’s a school night.  Then I remember that he lives at home alone with 50 yr old Mum (who, I may not have mentioned, is no social butterfly) and realise that this is probably his social equivalent of the biennial Air Force Ball.

I lovingly laughed at Neil most of the short drive home, although not for his haircut which we were both actually quite pleased with for $8.  A coffee or wine would have been a nice touch, I’ve heard that other classy salons do that, but maybe they’d run out that night.

No, I lovingly laughed at him for experiencing in a somewhat-condensed time-span what all parents experience at varying stages of their childs’ lives; which he has thus-far cunningly managed to dodge by meeting me when my girls were past the “oh-god-you-can-be-a-real-pain-go-away-and-let-me-finish-my-wine/magazine/dinner/ablutions/waxing-session” stage.

*delete as applicable session.

I figure though that he’s well and truly made up for it now and I know we’re never going to have one of those I-actually-wish-I-could-have-a-child-of-my-own discussions and I don’t need to search for a new uterus and ovary package on the black market. 

Six weeks later we can both laugh about the David-experience, although in all honesty I’d been laughing about it from day one, and Neil feels confident enough to head back to the Academy for another appointment.  A bit like an accident victim visiting the scene of the crash.  All the way there I ridicule him for thinking David will be there.

“C’mon, what are the chances, seriously?!  You’re being a bit ridiculous really babe, of all 365 days in the year – wait, it’s a leap year this year – 366 days, you really think he’s going to be here TWICE when we are?  Pffffft”.

All my ridiculing doesn’t stop him from doing a reccie from outside The Academy before entering enemy territory.  I bowl on in the door, take a quick look around, and roll my eyes at him.  He makes his way out from behind the parking meter pole and enters the shop, and I physically see him relax.  Feeling a bit guilty, not realising just how traumatic the David-experience had been for him, I lean over and pat this thigh. 

“All good babes.  See?  Nothing to worry about”.

The lady comes to get us both at the same time, within 5 minutes of arriving.  This visit is just getting better and better, we’ll definitely be making this our regular haunt.  My student tells me that she remembers us from last time;  they all thought that Neil was awesome and so incredibly patient and tolerant she tells me, and I can’t help but think she’s got designs on my man.  Seated at adjacent work stations, I look over at Neil and wink. 

Just then the front door opens.  The ambient temperature drops by 5 degrees, the room falls silent like a crowd at an execution, and all eyes fall on Neil.

“HEY!!  I know you!  You played with me last time, yaye!  Now… where are my frogs?”