Saturday 21 July 1962
It’s nine in the morning. I’ve been standing outside Maureen’s salon for the past twenty minutes. There’s been no sign of Maureen or Mrs Thwaite and her perm or even Mr Teasy-Weasy for that matter. In fact the only sign of life is the chemical stink that permanently hangs around the shopfront like a pair of foetid curtains.
I’m not very happy about starting work at Maureen’s. I’d far rather be outside on the farm or doing something Exciting with Caroline or something Not Exciting with Margaret. I’m not in the least bit interested in hair and I’m sure I’m not safe to be let loose with all the peroxide, scissors and hot tongs waiting for me inside. Plus Christine is behind it, which means it can’t be good. On the other hand, it’ll make Arthur happy (he seems obsessed about me ‘getting a trade’), give me a little extra spending money, and keep me out of Christine’s way. And they have hairdressers in London, don’t they?
So here I am, waiting to give it a go.
‘Coooo-eeeeee.’
That’s Maureen, the only person in the village who makes Christine look like a quiet dresser. Today she has come as a heavily accessorised coral reef.
‘Evie, love,’ she shouts, marching towards me. ‘Sorry I’m late. I’ve had a terrible time.’
She stops and leans against the brick wall, dabbing her nose with a lacy hanky.
‘It’s my piles. They’ve been playing up all night. You youngsters don’t know you’re born.’
I smile, unsure of the correct way to respond. Being with Maureen is an etiquette minefield.
She puts her key in the door and opens up shop. ‘I’m meant to have Mrs Thwaite coming first thing. I don’t know where she’s got to. I hope she’s not stuck in her bloody bath again. It took three of us to get her out last time.’
*
It’s really strange being inside the salon and not being a customer. I’ve been here loads of times to have my hair cut but, like all Maureen’s customers, I usually stick to the permitted spaces of the small sofa at reception, the basins, and one of the big hairdressing chairs. Today, though, I’m let loose, free to go wherever I want. Or, to be more accurate, wherever Maureen wants. As soon as we walk in, she starts giving me a list of things to do. Wipe the mirrors. Rinse the brushes. Sweep the floor. It’s worse than Girl Guides.
‘But first,’ she says, walking over to the coat rail, ‘you’ll need to put on one of these.’
She’s holding up a bright pink apron. It has a kangaroo-style pocket (complete with hundreds of attached hair grips) and a huge pair of cartoon scissors embroidered across the front. It’s the type of thing that Christine would design. I hate it.
‘Er, do I have to wear it, Maureen?’
‘Of course you do. It’s like a uniform. I’ve got one too. Hey, we’ll look like twins.’
Yes, Pinky and Perky.
I put the apron on and immediately feel thirty years older.
‘You look lovely,’ says Maureen. ‘Now, before you do anything, could you put the kettle on, please, love? I’m dying for a brew. Get one for yourself too.’ And she starts checking her make-up in the huge mirror in front of her.
Now that I’m wearing the apron, I notice that it really stinks. Mainly of bleach and other chemicals, but there’s also a faint undercurrent of cigarettes and Liquorice Allsorts. Why is it that everything in a hairdresser’s is so smelly? I walk into the staff room and that stinks too. It’s like being in the school chemistry lab, with bottles of nasty-looking liquids everywhere. I put the kettle on and have a look around. There’s a couple of stacks of well-worn towels in one corner and, next to the loo, a shelf full of small boxes, all with strange names: Sunshine Blonde, Burnt Copper, Chestnut Flickers, Bolshoi Blue.
As I’m brewing, a bell pings. It’s the salon door.
‘Evie, love,’ shouts Maureen. ‘Mrs Thwaite’s just arrived. Can you come and look after her, please?’
I pop my head round the door. Maureen is still on the chair in front of the mirror doing something to her fringe. I shout and tell her that I’m just brewing up but she smiles and shouts back that I can do that after I’ve taken Mrs Thwaite’s coat. I bet Leonard of Mayfair doesn’t have to do all this.
After I’ve de-coated Mrs Thwaite (eighty-two, tomato grower, moustache) and sat her down on the sofa next to reception, I go back to the staff room to finish the teas (three now, not two). I’m busy looking for the sugar when I hear Maureen shout my name again so I pop my head back round the door.
‘Can you get Mrs Thwaite ready for her perm, please, love?’
‘I’m just making the tea,’ I tell her. ‘I’m almost done.’
‘Yes, you can finish that after, Evie,’ replies Maureen, still sitting and fiddling with her hair. ‘I need my lady shampooing.’
*
I spend the rest of the morning shampooing, sweeping, making drinks and wiping mirrors. I also spend a lot of time standing next to Maureen and passing her things. Rollers. Perm rods. Brushes. Cups of tea. There’s a lot of standing up in hairdressing. You need legs like Roger Bannister’s.
I’ve discovered four things working in Maureen’s salon:
1. Quite a lot of the stuff that gets squirted on people’s hair smells like cat pee.
2. When old ladies sit under a hood dryer, they fall asleep almost instantly.
3. Hair gets everywhere.
4. Hairdressing is definitely not for me.
My two highlights of the morning were when Miss Cherry (exnurse, spinster, croquet enthusiast) fell asleep under the hood dryer and produced a huge stalactite of dribble worthy of Sadie and when Mrs Gadsby (Quaker, menopausal, Welsh) came out of the loo with the back of her gown tucked into her knickers.
I’m in the staff room mixing up a hair colour (Bruised Brisket) for Maureen’s 11.30 lady when I hear the bell go again and Maureen’s now familiar voice shouts, ‘Evie, can you see to my lady, please?’
When I step out of the staff room I can’t believe who’s standing there.
Caroline Scott-Pym.
Maureen is talking to Caroline at the reception desk. She’s looking up at Caroline in the same way Sadie does, clearly starstruck. Every head in the salon is craning over to reception and gawping at her.
She looks amazing.
She’s wearing a beautiful navy blue tailored jacket and skirt, some silk stockings, a pair of very smart high-heel shoes, and a huge lampshade-style hat. Under the hat, her hair is a mass of red curls and wavy flicks. The combination of heels, hat and hair makes her seem about eight feet tall. She looks magnificent, like a Vogue model or a be-suited Good Queen Bess about to see off the Armada.
‘Evie, can you take Dr Scott-Pym’s coat, please?’ says Maureen, using a voice that is much more mindful of her Ps and Qs than usual.
Dr Scott-Pym?
I just stand there. My brain is struggling to deal not only with this new piece of information about Caroline but also with the shame of her seeing me in a horrible stinky pink apron.
‘Evie? Could you take Dr Scott-Pym’s coat, please?’ repeats Maureen, smiling at Caroline. I’m sure there’s even a hint of a curtsey too.
Caroline passes me her hat and coat without saying a word, smiles, and then strides over to the basin.
*
‘I didn’t know you were a doctor,’ I say as I put a towel round Caroline’s shoulders.
‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ she whispers, leaning forwards and sending a waft of her lovely perfume up my nose. ‘Of course I’m not a doctor.’
‘Oh, but what was all that Dr Scott-Pym business, then?’
‘It’s groundwork. All warfare is based on deception. Honestly, don’t they teach you anything at school these days?’
What?
Our conversation is cut short by the arrival of Maureen.
‘Here we are,’ she says, sotto-voce, holding up a fancy-looking glass bottle. ‘I’ve got some lovely shampoo for you, Dr Scott-Pym. Something for our special ladies,’ she adds, over-annunciating every syllable. ‘It’s French.’
‘Ah, merci. Très gentil,’ replies Caroline, reaching out and touching Maureen’s arm.
Maureen looks like she’s just been given a Guinea tip.
‘Well, I have some very refined clientele, Dr Scott-Pym,’ says Maureen, almost purring. ‘And I like to keep a few products to one side for them. Special-like.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ says Caroline, smiling a smile last seen in Hollywood. ‘Do you know, this gorgeous salon of yours is just like the one I go to in London. I love it.’
Maureen looks like she might explode.
‘Now,’ continues Caroline, ‘let’s give this lovely French shampoo a try, shall we?’
And she swings her chair round and puts her head forward into the basin.
Maureen leans over and whispers in my ear, ‘Mind you give her a good wash, Evie. Two shampoos and a cream rinse,’ and then walks off.
I switch on the water, give the pipes under the basin a good kick, and then start to wet Caroline’s sumptuous red hair.
‘What’s happening?’ I say, dolloping a good measure of French shampoo on her head.
‘I’ve got a plan.’
‘A plan for what?’
‘A plan to get you out of here,’ she says (although it’s not easy to hear what she’s saying because she’s got her head bent over the basin). ‘You do want to get out of here, don’t you?’
Do I? Is a summer spent shampooing old ladies worth it if it makes Arthur happy? Can I put up with the horrible smells, the relentless standing and the underwear full of other people’s hair if it brings a smile to Arthur’s face?
Bugger that. This isn’t for me. If I’m happy, Arthur’s happy. That’s how it works with fathers and daughters, isn’t it?
‘Yes, of course I want to get out of here,’ I tell Caroline. ‘But I’m stuck with it until school starts.’
‘Rubbish. Mummy would be furious with me if she knew I’d abandoned you here. And to be honest,’ she says, turning her head slightly and looking at me out of the corner of her eye, ‘you’re really not cut out to be a hairdresser. You’re shampooing me as if I were a bull in a field, darling. Now, don’t worry. I’m going to rescue you.’
Suddenly, I feel like Wendy Darling being rescued from Captain Hook. I have never been rescued from anything before and am expecting an elaborate plan involving lots of derring-do and clever intrigue.
‘Here, take these,’ she says, passing me two small bottles.
I look at the bottles. A pink food dye and a blue food dye. It’s hardly the stuff of The Thirty-Nine Steps.
‘I found them in a cupboard in Mummy’s kitchen,’ she says.
‘Yes, we used them to make a cake for Arthur and Christine,’ I whisper. ‘What are we meant to do with them?’
‘Well, you’re going to pour them all over your arms and then you’re going to sit back and let me do the rest,’ whispers Caroline. ‘Come on, hurry up whilst no one’s looking.’
I take the pink food dye first and splash it over both my arms in the basin. My arms immediately look like two long strips of angry Red Windsor cheese. Then I do the same with the blue food dye and my arms go from an angry pink to a grotesque blotchy purple. Horrible.
Caroline pulls out a black towel from her bag and starts dabbing at my arms. When she’s finished, she stuffs the towel back in her bag and stands up dramatically, her hair still covered in shampoo so that she looks like a Mr Whippy ice cream.
‘Good Lord,’ she shouts, immediately getting the attention of everyone in the salon. ‘Maureen, this girl is ill.’
The whole salon stops and stares at me.
‘It’s clearly a bad reaction,’ says Caroline, leaning over and having a good look at my arms. ‘She needs to go home immediately.’
Maureen (ever the drama queen) rushes over and puts her arm round me. ‘Oh, Evie, love, you poor thing. Whatever’s wrong? Come and sit down.’ And she takes me over to the sofa at reception.
Mrs Burrows (bad breath, stubby neck) is clearly not happy about having her fringe trim interrupted. She comes over and has a look at my arms, reaching out and trying to touch the purple marks.
‘No touching, please,’ Caroline says, sounding terrifyingly imperious. ‘We can’t risk any infection.’
‘Just looks like a funny bruise to me,’ says Mrs Burrows, screwing up her face into a frown. ‘She’ll be fine.’
Caroline stares at Mrs Burrows.
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ she says, mustering up far more dignity than anyone with a head full of shampoo should by rights be able to, ‘but I’m a doctor and I can assure you that it is a reaction. It looks like a bad case of . . .’
She flicks her eyes around the room.
‘. . . prosciutto cruditis.’
Everyone looks blank.
‘It’s quite a rare reaction,’ she goes on. ‘Chemicals. Particularly chemicals found in hair salons. It can be quite disfiguring.’
Maureen gasps and puts her hand up to her mouth. Mrs Burrows is still frowning, our very own hairclip-wearing bulldog.
Caroline reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out what appears to be a wooden lollypop stick (without the lollypop).
‘Could you put your tongue out, please?’ she says.
I stick my tongue out and Caroline jabs the lollypop stick on it.
‘And now say ah.’
‘Aaaahhhhhhhh,’ I say, trying not laugh.
‘Definitely prosciutto cruditis,’ she confirms, flicking her vowels authoritatively. ‘This girl needs to go home immediately and sit in a bath of warm water for at least an hour.’
‘Oh my god,’ says Maureen, definitely enjoying the drama of it all. ‘Evie, you get going, love. Do whatever Dr Scott-Pym says.’
‘Yes,’ says Caroline, twinkling her eyes. ‘You go straight home, young lady. Bath and then bed. And think yourself very lucky to have such a wonderful boss.’ She turns to Maureen and smiles. ‘Although with such a bad case of prosciutto cruditis, I’m afraid her days of working in a salon are over. We can’t risk another reaction.’
As she speaks, Caroline is ushering me out of the door.
‘I’m really sorry, Maureen,’ I shout. ‘It’s been lovely working here but it looks like I’m just not up to it.’
‘Don’t worry, love,’ replies Maureen. ‘I understand. It’s not for everyone, the hairdressing game. You need to have skin as tough as tractor tyres.’
*
Outside, Caroline’s wet hair has flopped down (no more Mr Whippy) and she’s dripping water everywhere.
‘Off you go, darling,’ she says. ‘It’ll come off easy enough. Just give your arms a good rub with toothpaste – it gets rid of more or less anything. You’ll be fine again in no time.’
She winks and heads back inside the salon.
Brilliant. No more stinky salon to worry about.
Now I just have to do something about Christine.