HOW my wife got me into a hairdressing salon remains something of a mystery. I’d like to report there was a certain amount of screaming and kicking involved or that I was abducted and dumped there. But actually, in the end, I just went quietly like a guilty man resigned to his fate.
I was half awake and at my most vulnerable, which isn’t really much of a defence – a lot of people said the same thing when Napoleon marched into town – but at least he wasn’t going to give them a shampoo and set.
“So do I get to read a gossipy magazine and sit under one of those big helmets?” I asked my wife as we waited at the reception desk.
“Would you like to?” she asked.
I had to think about that one. I had been joking because there was a row of old women plugged into the big driers and joining their ranks was the last thing on my mind. Finding the nearest sneaky exit was first.
“I wouldn’t think about it too long,” whispered my wife, “they’ll think you’re serious.”
I glanced over and the receptionist smiled at me.
In the end, I did as I was told – handed over my jacket, sat down and read a magazine that was aptly titled Heat. I didn’t see many men in this magazine, and there weren’t any in the salon, despite the fact that my wife had assured me it was always full of blokes.
“Do you think they have any magazines without articles about make-up?” I asked.
My wife smiled.
“Excuse me?” I asked a young hairdresser who was passing, “do you have a back door I could escape through?”
She laughed nervously and peeled away from me.
After a few minutes reading about whether or not I should make that all-important late-season switch to skinny jeans, I started whistling. Not consciously or particularly loudly, but enough to warrant a sharp poke in the thigh.
“Do you hear anybody else whistling?” asked my wife.
“Remind me again why I’m here?” I replied.
“Because you wanted to get your hair washed and dried properly,” said my wife, still staring at her magazine.
This was news to me, but it would obviously have to do.
“There was another bit, though, wasn’t there?” I said after a minute or so.
“That’s right,” said my wife very slowly.
“If we carry on like this, eventually someone’s going to come up and ask you if I take sugar,” I said.
“They would, anyway,” she said matter-of-factly.
I had to ask my wife to repeat that. Hairdresser’s are quite noisy places, what with the chat and the blow-driers and the pop music and the passing traffic and the heat, and I was having difficulty concentrating on my article about hair extensions.
I was also mildly distracted by the hairy floor, which looked so soft and silky and alluring.
Curiously, most of it I reckoned was grey, not that I would be adding any of my grey matter to it; I was strictly a wash-and-dry booking.
Then I remembered the other bit, the main reason I had been lured for the first time in my life to a hairdressing salon.
A couple of weeks ago, I made the mistake of asking my wife if she thought my hair was grey as opposed to the indistinct vacuum-cleaner-bag-content colour it is normally. My wife squinted at my hair and decided that a subtle tint would completely transform not only it but also my face, which would look like it did before Tony Blair got into power.
I wasn’t sure about this. I have photographs from the 90s that tell a more gruesome story.
Within minutes, my wife had planned our very first joint hair appointment, which of course I never actually thought I would keep – either my wife would forget or I would be suddenly called away to an urgent meeting.
Which is why I found myself sitting in the salon, thrilled to be reading a magazine article about a bloke (admittedly it was Peter Andre).
I decided to keep quiet about the hair tinting at that point – there was only so far I could be led wearing a waterproof lilac cape.
Having my hair washed was an interesting and surprisingly therapeutic experience and I was beginning to get in the mood until I was led to a chair and wiped my eyes to discover I seemed to be sitting in a box of mirrors.
All those plans about discussing the forthcoming holiday I had made up went to waste as I was so amazed by the size of my neck. I was rendered completely mute. The only thing I could think of was why it needed to be so big. From the side, it looked as if it could support a small family car. I was also now sitting in the window about 5ft from the pavement.
A bloke stopped with a gaggle of small children in tow and they all stared in and pointed until the bloke shrugged and pulled the children away. They were obviously asking if they would have a neck like a tree trunk when they grew up.
Neck aside, it suddenly struck me that I had somehow turned into my middle-aged mother. I had never noticed this before but now it seemed obvious and in which case dyeing my hair was obviously not an option, it was a genetic disposition.
“Are you all right?” asked the girl drying my hair as I tried to get up. “Just a few more minutes and then Kerry will go through the colour charts with you.”
I never met Kerry. Grey is the new mousey brown, I told my wife. She had that faint “that’s what you think” look, which I’ve made a note of.