Kevin
This is the story of my first shampoo in salon as a typical 18 year old British lad back in summer 1996.
“Do you fancy going out to that large department store in town?” I ask my mum, stepping out of the shower.
“Sure son, maybe get a haircut too?” Is her reply. My hair is collar length, thick dark brown with sideburns. I’ve also managed to grow a thick handlebar mustache. I’m proud of it, but I need it cut.
I drive us to the store, park up and go in. After stopping at the store’s café, mum notices a small advert:
“FARGO. MEN’S HAIRDRESSERS”Â
“You can get your haircut done here”. She says, pointing at it. “Okay, let’s finish our drinks and go.”
There are 10 dark red barber chairs, 6 across the back wall and 2 at each side with a white sink In front. Receptions in the middle and a seating area for people waiting. Around 12 staff, all women over 40 dressed in a brown pinny type uniform.
Gazing round I sit in the crowded seating area. 15 minutes or so pass then
“Kevin” my name gets called by the oldest hairdresser I’ve ever seen. I get up, mum follows, I slowly walk towards a chair in the middle of the salon.
She’s not even 5’0, Blimey, at a lanky 5’11 I tower over her. My blue checked shirt and 1970s styled dark blue bootcut jeans disappear from view as a large red gown is wrapped round me, down to my ankles. I only see the flared bottoms and my brown trainers poking out. Tape is applied round my neck ready for my haircut, or so I think.
However,instead she’s picking through my scruffy hair. What’s she up to I wonder, the barber just sprays it. Not her, she’s pulling through it just above my right ear, then moves to the top of my head, undoing all the gel in the process. Studying and scrutinizing in a similar manner a pest control officer might look at an insect. I’m perplexed and dumfounded by her actions.
Rubbing her fingers together she has a faint frown on her. With a hint of authority in her voice, and to my surprise,the hairdresser looks at my mum saying:
“Mmm….It needs a GOOD wash”
What?!, I thought to myself. ” Yes, he could do with it, his hair is quite dirty.” mum agrees, nodding in approval and looking at me in the mirror. Now she’s studying my hair in a similar fashion picking her fingers through it.
The decision has been made, by both of them, I’m to be SHAMPOOED!
“Err…yeah..err.”
Is my spluttered and bewildered response as 2 black towels are removed from the cabinet to the right of the chair and put round me.
Whilst she does this I gaze into the big sink in which my head will soon to be dunked. Just then she is called to the front desk, leaving me bundled up, cocooned and on display in the middle of this rather warm salon.
As I sit there, mum standing to my left, sweat pours through my hair and sideburns. My mustache is becoming itchy, I cant scratch it. I’ve never had a hair wash in the salon before, now I’m about to be shampooed In front of all these strangers by women older than my own granny! I glance round to see if anyone else is, surely someone, the place is packed. No, just me and I’m rapidly becoming a source attention from others.
A young lad, around my age, with a dirty blond mop style cut with glasses is smirking, revelling in my trepidation. I’m so transfixed by him I fail to notice her return and start the water.
WHOOSH
It comes out of the hose, hissing and splashing round the sink, gurgling down the plug hole. I gaze at it, so does my mum, okay for her its my head going under! wide eyed I watch on, as she adjusts the temperature and water splashes through her fingers.
I look into the mirror, then my mum, I release this IS going to happen. Anticipation is building along with my nerves.
The temperature is adjusted by her, the final few seconds tick down then it’s time. Looking in a coy, smug, devious way at my messy, long, unkempt,greasy, dirty, oily, sweaty,sticky,scruffy, dandruff ridden,gel- laden hair she sais directly:
“OK, dunk in!”
I give a glance to my mum, she just smiles then I start to lean forward, my jeans make a squeak as a moved slowly towards the sink. Sensing my timidity, she puts her left hand on my neck and guides me down. I seeing the water going round the sink, I close my eyes.
I feel warm water cascade and saturate my hair, she runs her wrinkly fingers firmly through it, getting every bit soaked . After 90 seconds or so cold peppermint shampoo is vigorously and firmly applied. I peek out of one eye, just for a second or so. Hair is dangling over my face full of suds, I grit my teeth due to the firmness of her fingers.
Scrubbing continues whilst the hairdresser is casually chatting away with my mother. Water is running intensely over my face, through my hairy mustache and dripping from my nose. Over the sound of the hose, she tells me mum (and probably half the salon):
“I’ll shampoo him again and put in conditioner, he needs it.”
The second shampoo is more soapy then the first and longer to. Every bit of dirty is being washed away then conditioner is applied through every strand of my soaking hair, it seems to take ages. Water is then squeezed out of my hair on the last rinse. The towel is wrapped in a firm manner round my head, to the sound of water gurgling away.
Wow, what an experience that had been. “Feel better?” She asks. “Yeah.” I responded. Sure I’d been on display but that shampoo has been great.
Scissors effortless cut through my damp but shinning hair. Despite her age my hairdresser does a good job. I regret my prejudice towards her at first.
“Do you like it?” She asks holding up the mirror behind me as the gown is removed. “Looks good”. My mum and I look at each other in approvement.
“Let’s pay and go home” mum said going towards reception and I get my jacket on.
