CHAPTER 22

My Haircut

The next morning, it’s pouring, typical wintertime Melbourne. The weather’s no better now there’s a war on and half a million Americans are ready to celebrate Fourth of July.

Mum’s still in bed, but Roma is staying for the weekend and she’s already up and making coffee. We’re the only people I know with a coffee percolator. I love the smell and watching the bubbles in the lid. It’s an American invention that Mum and the girls have adopted. Mum likes to think she’s modern; she says it’s stupid to pod peas by hand when you can buy them in a tin. She loves sitting in bed with the telephone like a film star; Australian phones are black and she would love a white one with a long, long cord so she could walk around the room like in the movies. A satin robe would be good too.

My nana would never think of relaxing in bed let alone with the phone. She makes proper Australian tea in a pot with a woollen cosy she knitted to keep it ‘nice and warm’. She makes at least six pots a day and when I visit she lets me join her, putting lots of milk in mine.

I’m going to Nana’s today. Usually, Betty babysits me at our place, but I know Mum and the girls are expecting big things from the July 4 night at the Dug-Out and they don’t want me in the way. Or Betty for that matter.

Mum says that maybe Betty will take me to the USA Independence Day celebration that afternoon at the Carlton Football Club grounds. There’s been quite a stink about the huge flag pole the Americans have erected to fly the Stars and Stripes, how it will dominate the relatively small Australian flag on the grandstand roof.

‘It should be fun,’ Mum says. ‘There’s going to be touch football and baseball. If this bloody weather clears up. I want you to get a haircut on the way to Nana’s. I’ve wrapped a shilling in a clean hankie for you. Tell the barber you want short back and sides, don’t lose the money, don’t dawdle and be good for Nana.’

I’m nodding my head over and over and even then she wants to know if I’m listening. ‘Yes, Mum, I’ll be good. Can I go now? … Please?’

I’m getting a haircut by myself for the first time. Mum has always taken me; we go mid-week when it’s not crowded. But this is Saturday morning and there are four grown-ups ahead of me. They’re all talking about the war and the bloody Yanks taking over. And the bloody Fourth of July.

I join the queue by sitting on the end of the bench and pick up a magazine called Pix with a picture of a lady wearing a sweater on the cover. I turn inside hoping for comics and find cartoons of the enemy leaders – Hitler, and particularly Tojo, looked awful. The Japanese always had too many teeth. I anxiously examine my teeth in the barbershop mirror. No-one wanted to look like a dirty Jap – particularly not in the barbershop where old men smoked and rolled their dentures as they discussed our battle strategies. There’s a Blondie comic I don’t understand, and I start listening to the old blokes while pretending to read. They talk about the RAF bombing German war factories, and how the Americans bombing Tokyo gave the dirty Japs a big shock.

‘Struth, mate, six months ago we thought they were our saviours, and now they’ve taken over the bloody place,’ one old geezer says.

‘Yeah,’ the barber says, ‘There’s half a bloody million of the buggers in the country now.’

I’m hunched behind my magazine. I wouldn’t want these men to know my mum was warming Dad’s bed with Americans. The other night Roma talked about the Jap propaganda: while our boys were away fighting, the Yanks were enjoying their wives. Roma said it was called ‘the delicate woman question’. The government censors hushed it up with as little publicity as possible. The Yanks were threatened their leave would be cancelled if they were seen kissing or holding hands with Aussie girls.

Roma had told us traffic had been held up for an hour in the city during the week when there was a battle between a mob of about 2000 Aussies and Yanks. There is a lot of resentment from the Australian servicemen who have returned home after years fighting for their lives in the Middle East. ‘They reckon the Yanks are bloody everywhere, and they’re not happy,’ says Roma.

The man who’s just had his hair cut is a soldier on leave. He takes his big army coat off the rack and lights a fag as he pays the barber. ‘There was a time when nice young girls didn’t even go out with soldiers,’ he says. ‘If I see one of the bastards even looking at my girl I’ll beat his bloody brains out.’

Eventually, it’s my turn. ‘Short back and sides,’ I tell the barber, like Mum said. He puts a board across the armrests of his big chair and gets me to climb up. I tell him I’ve got the money in my hanky, but I can’t untie Mum’s knot. ‘Don’t you worry about that, young man,’ he says. ‘She’ll be apples. You just sit up straight and be still, and I’ll have you looking spruce in no time.’ He’s really quick. He rubs oil in my hair and I can see in the mirror how nice and shiny it looks. And smells good too. Then he brushes me down, takes my shilling, and wishes me good luck. He’s nice. Out on the street it’s still raining cats and dogs, and I fish my cap out of my coat pocket. I hate to mess up my hair, but after the new haircut my head is cold, and I can’t get to Nana’s quick enough.