Down Memory Lane, Part 1 – Dream a Little Dream

Prologue

The bell above my door has a particular tone. It was not the cheap, tinny jingle of modern shops, but a weighty, brass ding-dong that speaks of permanence. For over forty years, that sound has been the punctuation to my life. I am Frank Lane, and for that whole time this little shop in the heart of The Lanes has been my anchor.

The Lanes themselves are a glorious jumble, an ancient warren of narrow passageways and hidden courtyards, packed with creative shops, artisan boutiques, and independent cafes. To work here is to be part of a secret society. That my name was Lane was a coincidence my late wife, Debbie, always insisted was a portent of good fortune. She was right. I found her here, or rather, we found each other in the bright, bustling frenzy of a city salon while we were training, but we built our life here, in the quiet coolness of these ancient stones.

Origins

Back in the Eighties, the air crackled with a sense of limitless possibility. Neon was art, synth-pop was the soundtrack to revolution, and hair was a canvas. I remember Debbie with a pair of crimpers in one hand and a can of hairspray in the other, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she concocted yet another gravity-defying style. We were Frank and Debbie, the couple named the Lanes, and the location of our premises felt inevitable. After a whirlwind romance that saw us fall in love over shared dreams and too many late-night pizzas, we married.

Then came the boldest step. We took our pooled savings, our boundless ambition, and our twin passions, and we opened our own place. Lanes Unisex, we called it. The word feels dated now, a historical artefact, but then it was a statement. We were a couple, partners in life and in business, and we were going to break all the rules. We found this perfect little nook, tucked away from the main thoroughfare. In The Lanes, Frank and Debbie Lane opened their first hair salon.

The early days were a blur of excited and jubilant chaos. I was supposed to be just a barber, and Debbie was to be the sole stylist. But the Eighties cared little for such distinctions. I became adept with a perm rod, and Debbie could execute a clippered wedge with a precision that would make an expert barber weep. The lines blurred completely.

Debbie had the eye. She had possessed an instinct for studying a client’s hair, evaluating the shape of the face, and seeing the person under the skin. From all this potential, Debbie created dramatic and personalised hairstyles that our customers loved. By contrast, I had the hands and the technical skills, exemplified by precision and patience. Together, we were a magical team, conjuring up more for our clients than our individual capabilities would have allowed.

Our photos frequently appeared in the local newspaper under headlines such as “The Bright Young Things Bringing Colour to Our Dull Streets”. We laughed, enjoying our moments of fame. And on our evening openings, we danced around the salon with our clients, beers in hand, to the sounds of Bowie and Blondie.

On one occasion I remember giving a young, punky woman a short-back-and-sides while Debbie worked next to me weaving highlights into the hair of a burly biker who had always dreamed of being a blond. The clients were as daring as we were, and the laughter was constant. We were outgoing, we worked hard, and we played harder, our success fuelled by the sheer, unadulterated fun of it all. Children never blessed our marriage, a quiet sadness that we shared, but the salon became our family, a vibrant, ever-changing tribe of beautifully coiffed individuals.

Over the next two decades, fashions waxed and waned. And we changed, as did the business. We rebranded as The Lanes Salon, dropping the “Unisex” as it became redundant. Debbie’s touch softened, her skills maturing into a more classic and elegant artistry. We were still successful, still popular, but the frantic, revolutionary energy had mellowed into a comfortable, successful hum.

And then the hum stopped. The silence that followed was deafening.

Changes

Debbie’s illness was a swift and brutal betrayal. One month she was complaining of a persistent tiredness, and the next she was gone. The world, which had seemed so full of colour and texture, turned to monochrome. My immediate thought was to sell up and to walk away from the ghost that haunted every mirror. But the thought of leaving our final shared bastion was unbearable. I decided to keep busy and allow work to be my anaesthetic in grief.

To an extent, the plan worked, with the daily routine providing a shield against the gaping wound of her absence. But the innovation we had sparked in each other? That flickered and died. My shears, once an extension of my imagination, became merely tools. I was still in demand, with my basic barbering skills as solid as ever. However, the drive to experiment, to push boundaries, to create something new, evaporated like mist in the morning sun. Without my Debbie to say, ‘Go on, Frank, give it a go!’ there was simply no point.

I continued to welcome women into the salon, a remnant of our old ethos. Specifically, I built a loyal following in the lesbian community, whose members I found to be forthright, fascinating, and appreciative of a no-fuss, excellently barbered haircut. I enjoyed their company, their stories, and their shared laughter that echoed a little of the old days. But even they began to drift away.

I had heard whispers about my changing character, with “Mister Grumpy” being the most frequent epithet I had overheard. An old man who had lost his spark, they said, and when I looked in the mirror, I saw the truth of it. The man looking back was haggard, his face a landscape of unsmiling lines, his own hair neat but thinning, lank, and with no real style. Without Debbie’s vibrant influence to keep me fresh, I was fading.

In a fit of self-pitying pragmatism, I changed the sign again to The Lanes Barbershop. It was a statement of fact that I thought would protect me. To an extent, it did, as it kept the women away. It kept everyone away except the men wanting a short back and sides or a basic businessman’s cut for a reasonable price.

Even The Lanes, my anchor and guiding light to a better future, changed around me. Once a warren of independent shops and vintage boutiques, it became a gauntlet of overpriced wine bars and souvenir stalls. Tourists walked past my shop without glancing. Locals only came out of habit or if their mothers insisted. ‘Frank will do a decent job, and he is cheap too,’ was a comment I heard when trying to order a simple white coffee at one of the nearby establishments that appeared to sell anything but!

“Decent” was the best I could hope for at that stage. Not visionary or unforgettable, I was just decent.

If I recall correctly, I kept the name pluralised – The Lanes – as a gentle homage to my wife. For years, I would stare at the sign and agonise. Should there have been an apostrophe? Lane’s? For the singular owner? Lanes’? For the salon of The Lanes? In the end, my life had become so small, so devoid of real decision or passion, that even the punctuation was too great a challenge. Yes, that was the level of my existence without Debbie’s bouncy, brilliant influence.

Then, as suddenly as a summer storm, Marie came back into my life.

The Hub

Marie was Debbie’s closest friend. Her partner in crime, my wife used to say. Or her BFF, or Best Friend Forever, I think you would call her these days. From the very beginning, she was one of our first clients at Lanes Unisex, and she swiftly became part of our inner circle. They were an inseparable double act of glamour and gossip. They went on “girls” nights out into their late thirties, shared clothes, swapped fashion ideas, and filled our salon with their shrieks of laughter. She had been there at our wedding, tunelessly leading the chorus from “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” as, arm in arm, we slowly marched from the church!

But “Forever” simply was not enough for either of us. And the “fun” was gone too soon. Marie was as devastated as I was when Debbie left us. She had sat with me during the funeral, silent but present, her hand on my knee like an anchor. She was there afterwards, but I became so withdrawn that I barely acknowledged her.

Then Marie’s life moved on. She had married and moved away to the other side of the country, a three-hour drive that felt like half a world away. However, Marie had still done her best to support me. She called me regularly, and she occasionally visited, but I was a brick wall to her entreaties.

I retreated into my grief, and eventually, quite reasonably, she gave up. I could not blame her, and, in retrospect, I realised she had needed my support as much as I should have accepted hers. What I had not subsequently learnt was that her husband had also passed away and she had recently moved back to the town where I still lived.

I Don’t Like Mondays

Mondays had always been the day when Debbie and I had steadfastly closed the doors on the salon. The week would have been hectic, Saturday a madhouse, and Sunday committed to refining our art, collaborating with models, and seeking new inspiration. So, Monday was for us, and we would drive out to somewhere lovely in the countryside for lunch and to recharge our batteries for the week ahead.

I maintained the tradition of staying closed on Monday, more out of habit than anything else. After all, my batteries had failed to accept any fresh charge for a considerable number of years.

But sitting around a closed shop trying to keep busy or lazing around in my apartment upstairs watching reruns of “Escape to the Country” on daytime TV had become oppressive. Even my doctor frequently remarked that I needed something more in my life when I kept asking him for a repeat prescription.

So, I had started attending a local community initiative – The Hub – a place for older people to drink tea, make stilted conversation with strangers, and, on an exceptionally unlucky day, have old ladies encouraging me to indulge in a couple of games of bingo. I would sit in the corner, watching the rain streak down the windows, avoiding the crafting sessions, and counting the minutes until I considered it was polite to leave. On the folk duo sing-alongs, I always made my excuses early! I rarely spoke more than a nodding hello to anyone.

‘Frank Lane? Is that really you?’ A familiar voice from my past rang out.

Marie

Marie’s strident voice cut through the murmur of polite chatter. I looked up from my polystyrene cup, and there she was. Her face was a little softer, lined by the years, but her eyes were the same, twinkling with an irrepressible energy. Her pink-and-white-checked skirt suit stood out against the background of beige. The hem was surprisingly short for someone of her age, but she carried it off with superb style, echoing her pushing of the boundaries when she was younger. She beamed, a smile that so purely brought back memories of the Eighties that it caught me completely off guard.

The biggest change in appearance was her hair. She was naturally auburn, but we rarely saw that colour in the past. And her hair had seldom come close to touching her shoulders, as Debbie had given her every fashionable cut and colour imaginable back in the day. She was the perfect model, and a professional photograph of her latest look often took pride of place in the salon’s window. Now her hair was silver, and, rather than colouring it, she wore it defiantly well. And it was long. Just how long was difficult to judge, but it made a sizable bun perched high on her head, with softening tendrils around her face.

Before I could even process her presence, she was across the room and wrapping me in a hug that smelt of lavender and kindness. It was so unexpected that other “Hubbers” even looked up from their crosswords and smiled to demonstrate their excitement.

‘Marie,’ I managed, my voice thick with emotion. ‘It’s… it’s wonderful to see you.’

Despite my stonewalling in our shared grief, we had maintained vague contact over the years. We exchanged Christmas cards and birthday texts, but it had been ten years since I had last laid eyes on her. As we talked, the years fell away. We reminisced, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I did not feel morose. She would not let me.

Marie skilfully steered the conversation away from the final days, towards the beginning. She forced me – us – to celebrate the wild, wonderful, vibrant life we had all lived. She was surprised I was still cutting hair. I told her that the thought of retirement and a sentence of seven days a week at The Hub would surely finish me off. She chuckled, the first person to laugh at anything I had said for an exceedingly long time. That said, we eagerly agreed to meet there again the following week.

She had retired from her work as a solicitor when she moved back. She was now involved in all manner of activities, including a couple of days a week in a charity shop. It sounded like she was a busy lady, and, playing the sullen martyr, I said if she was too busy, then I did not mind putting it off until another time.

She gave me a cold stare. ‘Frank, I would like to see you again. Very much,’ she said softly, lightly touching the back of my hand.

I gulped. ‘Me too,’ I echoed dumbly. ‘See you, I mean.’

It was lovely to hear that lovely, light chuckle once more.

‘Besides, the Hub organisers want to talk to me about helping out here.’ She paused before adding with a mischievous grin, ‘and I will be sure to pass on your feedback about likening the initiative to an unwelcoming prison.’

Tuesday

I went into work the next morning with a new spring in my step. It was not with romantic intent, not in the slightest. No, it was simply the channelling of positive emotion from the past and the warmth that came from a genuine connection that had nothing to do with hair or grief. It was a shame that we would have to wait another six days before meeting at The Hub, but she was a busy girl.

I had just unlatched the old brass lock, and, within seconds, as if someone had been waiting, the bell gave its customary ding-dong. I turned, expecting my first client of the day, but standing there was Marie. She was striding into the shop, wearing a black leather skirt that was scandalously short for a woman of her age. Paired with a crimson silk blouse and black ankle boots, she looked stunning… for a woman of any age! She held her head high, a picture of self-assurance, topped off with an elegant silver chignon coiled on top.

‘Lovely to see you again so soon, Marie,’ I said, my smile genuine. ‘But I am about to start work, and it is discount day for seniors, so it tends to get a bit frantic.’

‘So, I see, Frank,’ she smiled, looking around the empty shop. ‘Positively brimming with creative energy.’ Those same mischievous eyes of hers danced. ‘Well, Frank, my age nearly qualifies me for the discount, but irrespective, I will be your first senior of the day.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ I said primly, unsure I had heard her right or, if I had, what she had been proposing.

She chuckled at my awkwardness. ‘I want you to chop this lot off,’ she elaborated, poking a finger at her bun. ‘And despite your reduced prices, I insist on getting my money’s worth, so make sure it’s short… like you and Debbie did, back in the day.’ Her breath hitched before she picked up the reins again. ‘Give me something to make me look forty years younger.’

My jaw must have been on the floor. Her request for a haircut was surprise enough, but I could not work miracles. ‘Forty?’ I questioned, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugged, a grin playing on her lips. ‘I will settle for thirty, but nothing less will do. Now, get on with it, Frank. I want no consultation or any of that nonsense. I trust you.’

With that, she extracted a couple of large pins from her elaborate updo, then gave it a firm shake. A cascade of silver hair tumbled down her back, long and thick, like a silver lion’s mane. It was undoubtedly beautiful in its own way, and I felt a frisson of regret that I would not get to see it again. However, she was right with her demand for youthfulness, as it was ageing her. With the softer features that came with age, the dryness and the length were weighing her down.

‘Are you sure, Marie?’ I felt duty-bound to ask.

Her answer was to stride confidently over to my barber’s chair, lower herself into it, and flick out her mane over the backrest for one last time.

The Mane Chance

I draped the large black cape around her shoulders, then fastened it securely around her neck. Head still high, she gazed into the mirror, her apprehensive expression suggesting her confidence had taken a hit when faced with the reality of the situation.

I carefully brushed her magnificent silver mane. It was far longer than any hair I had cut for a decade or more. I took a deep breath, studying the fall of her hair, the texture, and the way it caught the light. As I looked in the mirror, she held my gaze. I nodded, acknowledging the care and attention she had given to her hair. She understood the gesture and smiled back.

Then, I walked purposefully to a small, locked drawer beneath the counter, and I unlocked it for the first time in years. Inside, on a bed of faded velvet, was a pair of Japanese steel shears that had cost a ridiculous amount of money. Engraved with a loving message, they were a twentieth wedding anniversary gift from Debbie, presented to me not long before she first became ill. They were perfectly weighted and had proved to be a natural extension of my hand. I had not used them since the day she had left me.

As I reverently lifted them up, I saw Marie’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. She remembered, of course she did. She understood the significance of those shears as I flexed them between thumb and ring finger, butting up to the wedding band that still sat there. Yes, Marie knew, and she gave me an encouraging nod.

Using a comb as a guide behind her, held level with her chin, I positioned the blades around her long tresses. Holding my breath, I slowly sliced through the first lock, the expensive steel operating like a hot knife through butter. I marvelled as a silver tendril, close to three feet in length, glided down her back and coiled on the floor at my feet.

‘Didn’t feel a thing,’ she murmured, clearly wishing to ease the tension that had been building between us. However, the wavering smile on her lips suggested she might be reconsidering the wisdom of her decision.

I let out the breath I had been unconsciously holding for ages, grateful for her interruption. ‘I will be gentle, Marie,’ I breathed.

‘You always were a “gentle man”, Frank,’ she said. ‘A perfect gentleman.’

I knew precisely what she had meant, but that was not the time to explore and discuss her words further.

Another cut, and I watched another long tendril falling to the floor.

As I continued, instinct took over. I equated the swishing sound of sharp scissors slicing through long hair as the most beautiful sound I had heard in two decades. The whisper of it falling through the air and coiling around my feet was like a forgotten melody. It was the sound of creation and purpose. The hair fell away, level with her chin. Marie’s breath hitched slightly, a sharp intake of surprise, but the smile never left her face. Feeling the old thrill surging through me, the artist awakening, I was not just removing hair, but I was sculpting.

I scooped up her longest lengths from the floor, bundled them together with an elastic band, and laid them out reverently on the shelf below the mirror.

Marie’s coarsely hewn grey bob was not my end game. I reached for my hairclippers, and I noticed her chest repeatedly rise and fall in anticipation of what would follow. With a precision I thought had rusted away, I shaved all the hair on one side to leave a fine silvery pelt. On the other side, I maintained the length at the front, near her chin, then angled the line upwards towards the back of her head. The style I had envisaged in my mind, the fashionable look I had performed regularly decades earlier, was taking shape. I did not think about it, but, instead, I simply felt it.

Easing Marie’s head forward, she complied with a whimper. I adjusted the blade of the hairclippers and shaved her nape down to the skin before fading it longer the higher up the back of her head I went. It was a complex trigonometry problem, but one I had learnt to solve on any shape of head, saving the solution in the archive of my mind. Muscle memory was my saviour as I finalised the asymmetric, wedge-like bob that enhanced Marie’s features perfectly. One side was long and sweeping up, while I precisely faded the other side into the temples and the nape.

It looked bold, modern, and striking, yet it was one of the archetypal hairstyles of the Eighties. One of Debbie’s signature styles…

Once I was satisfied, I held up a mirror to allow Marie to inspect it from all angles. While it may not have met the criteria for halving her age, the style suited her hair and her features perfectly. It was a precise, even harsh, choice, but it worked.

Marie turned her head from side to side, her fingers exploring the new lines at her neck. Her reflection exhilarated her, a delighted chuckle bubbling up. She looked like a kid on a fairground ride. ‘Frank! It is stunning! Absolutely brilliant!’

As I swished away the cape, she jumped and pecked me on each cheek. ‘My pleasure,’ I enthused honestly. The phrase “back in the saddle” kept coming to mind, even if the mare that carried it had departed years earlier.

‘After all these years, you still have it, and I am going to tell everyone where I had it done,’ Marie stated with vigour.

A flicker of my old nervousness returned as I visualised a barbershop full of attractive women demanding avant-garde bobs! Whatever would I do? But I hid my growing feeling of panic, as the look on her face was a tonic. And I remembered that you never argued with Marie when she was happy.

No Chance

Marie leaned closer to the mirror, studying her new reflection with a critical eye. Then her gaze shifted, her eyes meeting mine in the glass.

‘Do you tell your clients with hair like yours,’ she blurted, without preamble, ‘to plaster their remaining long strands with grease to give the illusion that they still have a full head of hair?’

The question was so blunt, so shockingly direct, that I was speechless. ‘Er, no, not really,’ I wheedled, feeling my ears burn. ‘There are a range of options available. Layering it differently, varying the style… and suchlike. Transplants, even. Or they can just shave it all off…’

‘And you, Frank? Do you listen to your own advice?’

‘Well, I do not care about mine. How I look… not without…’ I trailed off, the unsaid name hanging in the air between us.

‘I can see that,’ Marie said, suddenly dropping her light tone for one that was more forthright. She stood up and pointed a commanding finger at my own barber’s chair. ‘Sit down.’

I blinked. ‘What?’

‘Sit down, Frank.’ There was no arguing. I found myself obeying, my legs moving of their own accord. I sat, the worn leather embracing me. Marie swiftly covered me with my own cape, securing it tightly around my neck as if she had been doing it for years.

Then she picked up my worn and treasured hairclippers. They were the same ones I had just used on her. She held them, humming and menacing, a glint in her eye. She raised a questioning eyebrow and held the pose.

My mind raced. This was madness. I was Frank Lane, the barber. I did the cutting in my own shop, where I had worked for forty years. My hair was thin, a sad combover I had been ignoring for years. But looking at her, at her fierce, determined expression, at the magnificent new haircut that was a testament to my skill, I saw her point. She was forcing me to face myself and to let go of the past. The humming of the clippers urged me to follow the process.

Eventually, I gave in. I closed my eyes and nodded.

‘Your turn to trust me, Frank,’ she said softly, and then the cold steel touched my skin on my forehead for the first time.

She took immense pleasure in it, shearing off the pathetic strands to which I had been clinging. I felt the vibration travel through my skull, a strange, tingling sensation. It was a blessed relief as I felt the weight of years, of grief, of pretence, simply floating away with my hair.

When she had reduced all the hair on my scalp to a fine, dark shadow, she stopped. ‘Razor?’ she demanded.

With her limited barbering skills and experience, her intention to lather me up and shave me was a bridge too far. ‘No,’ I said, my voice a little shaky. ‘But… there’s another way.’

I instructed her in the use of my latest acquisition, the only new piece of salon equipment I had purchased in years. I demonstrated how to hold my silver foil shaver to achieve maximum effectiveness with an economy of movement. She applied it with the same diligence she had approached everything that day, moving it over my scalp in methodical, overlapping circles until my head gleamed like a billiard ball.

She ran a hand over the smooth surface and inspected my new profile in the mirror. ‘You look much younger, Frank,’ she judged, planting a soft, warm kiss right on the top of my newly shorn head. It was not from passion but from placing a line under the past and looking to the future.

I stuttered words of appreciation as she untied the cape. ‘Thanks, Marie, I –’

‘Now,’ she said, her energy returning in a rush, ‘I have a shift scheduled in the charity shop, and I am late, so I must rush!’

She grabbed her handbag before setting off like a whirlwind in her slinky outfit and a sharp new asymmetric bob. As she reached the door, she turned, her beaming smile filling the shop. ‘But I will be seeing you again very soon, Mister.’ And she was gone, the bell ding-donging her departure.

I sat there for a long moment, the air from the overhead fan cool on my scalp. If it were not for the silver snake of collected hair under the mirror and the mountain of grey locks on my tiled floor, I would have sworn it had all been a dream. Slowly, I got up and walked to the mirror.

The man who looked back was not the haggard and grumpy old barber of yesteryear. He looked younger, and his eyes seemed clearer. The lines on his face did not look so much like etchings of sadness anymore but a pattern for a life lived and wisdom gained.

I took the broom from its corner and began to sweep. I swept up Marie’s hair, and I swept up my own, intermingling the remnants of the past. The bell on the door tinkled gently in the breeze from the street, a subdued sound I had not truly heard in years. It was the sound of a new beginning.

For the first time in a long while, I was looking forward to something. I planned to find time to buy new clothes to look presentable for my meeting with Marie the following Monday at The Hub.

To be continued