Scissors Sisters & Manic Panics

‘So what if I’m nodding my head – what is the problem with nodding my head?’ His voice went up at the end like it always does when he’s irritated. I like him even when he sounds like that.

‘You are way, way too positive about life. It’s not natural.’

‘And you are way, way too angsty. Why are you so angsty?’

Why was I angsty?

‘Two reasons. Number 1: I’ve just been fired. And number 2: Have you met my family at all?’

‘Y’know,’ said Tony, ‘I think you badly need some TLC, maybe I’ll swing by with Billy – see what you’re up to . . .’

I knew exactly where this was leading, because Tony Cruz is always looking for an excuse to give me Tender Loving Care. Unfortunately, it is up to every member of my family to prevent him. And as my family live all over the neighbourhood, it means that my neighbourhood is a No Booty Mr Cutie zone.

As if on cue, there was a rapping sound on the glass of the café door. It was my mum. I rolled my eyes. Now I couldn’t even have a conversation with Tony without being interrupted?

‘Gotta go,’ I said. ‘Call you later.’

‘Laters.’

Mum was mouthing What happened? at me through the door, like she couldn’t even wait to be inside before starting to interrogate me. Oh God, why couldn’t my family just give me a centimetre of space; a window of like five minutes to gather myself together before they turned everything into an episode of Eastenders?

Uncle came bustling through from the kitchen and opened the café door. ‘Ay naku, Angela, it’s all fine. No drama here. We’re just having a bite to eat. Join us if you like.’

Mum pulled up a chair and sat down at the table. Her hair needed a trim. Even though I totally remodelled her hair last year, making her ditch the two styles she’d always sported (one on the back and one on the front of her head), she never let me get at it regularly enough. It wasn’t surprising that her hair had started to make its way back into the old shmullet. I made a mental note to pin her down to a trim at some point. Get her back into that stacked bob we’d gone for. But now didn’t seem to be an appropriate moment.

Mum peered at me over her glasses while Uncle dished up pancit, for her this time. Then he went back into the kitchen, claiming to be hunting for the fish sauce again. He was giving us space. Subtle, my uncle.

‘Are you OK? Do you want to talk about it?’ said Mum.

‘Not particularly, if that’s all right with you.’

‘That’s OK. That’s just fine.’

Her mouth went into a straight line. I was sure it wasn’t OK. I was sure that Mum was desperate to talk about it – that she was really frustrated that I didn’t want to tell my side. Sure enough, five minutes into a conversation about other salons in the area who might be hiring, Mum said, ‘But of course all salons will expect you to sweep up.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I said.

‘It’s not supposed to mean anything,’ said Mum.

‘Has someone been telling you that I’m a stroppy teenager who thinks I know it all, how I have a lot to learn, how I’m unable to follow instructions, how I don’t listen, how wilful I am, how I refuse to sweep the floor from left to right downhill as you’re facing the back door because if the draft comes under the door it blows the hair all over the shop?’

‘No,’ said Mum, going a bit pink. ‘No one’s been telling me that. At all, as it happens.’

‘Hmmm.’ Like I really believed her.

‘So is that why she fired you?’

‘I said I don’t want to talk about it!’

‘I know,’ said Mum, ‘and I said that is fine, we don’t have to talk about it. Let’s not talk about it. Look – we’re not talking about it! It’s negative. Let’s concentrate on the good stuff and where you’ll go next.’

‘I don’t want to talk about that either.’

‘Sadie, you have started a Level 1 Hairdressing course. That’s one day out of school a week! We need to sort the apprenticeship or this year is a complete waste of time, not to mention you can’t enter that competition unless –’

‘I don’t want to talk about it, Mum!’

‘Well we have to think about it, even if we’re not talking about it,’ said Mum.

She cannot just let things lie, my Mum. She has to poke them and prod them.

‘OK.’

‘And we have to talk about it before Monday because Monday you have college.’

‘I know.’

Of course I knew that Monday I had college. And by Monday, everyone would be getting their entry forms for the Thames Gateway Junior Apprentice Hairdresser (or Barber) of the Year Award filled out and signed. Everyone except me, because as of an hour ago I was no longer eligible to enter.

3

Acid Perm Lotion

The hairdresser (or barber) must complete the entry form before or on the required date stated.

Guideline 3: Thames Gateway Junior Apprentice Hairdresser (or Barber) of the Year Award

Monday morning and when I arrived at college I saw that Aimée Price was wearing green earrings that matched her green bag that matched her green-and-white spotty shoes that matched her green-tipped nails. No wonder people called her Claire’s Accessories behind her back.

She was sitting on one of the barber chairs we have in the student salon and her feet were up on another, matching shoes and all. These chairs are from Taylor Belshaw’s Nirvana range – expensive kit with funky patterned seats like I plan to have in my own salon eventually. You can bet that Aimée Price wouldn’t have a clue about quality salon chairs, judging by the way she put her feet all over them. She was also boring the pants off Florence, our lecturer.

‘Misty really reckons I’m in with a chance,’ she was saying. ‘She’s getting the senior stylist to do extra work with me to like coach me up and everything for the competition.’

Yeah. Well, Aimée was going to need all the help she could get. I knew the salon she worked in. Cissor’s Palace – Unisex Hairdresser was at the south end of Roman Road, and it was as cheesy as it sounded. All the fittings looked like they were from the 1980s or something, and not in a good, retro way, and 1985 was when the owner, the famous Misty, last changed her hairstyle, by the looks of things. The woman wears it up in a scrunchie, and I’m pretty sure she still demi-waves in there. If you ask me, for an apprenticeship, Cissor’s Palace – Unisex Hairdresser really sucks the big one.

Florence wasn’t quite so convinced either. ‘Aimée, I think if you work on your timing you could be in with a shot for the competition,’ she said. ‘But you do need to speed things up a little bit.’

Aimée Price needed to speed things up more than a little bit – I mean snails took a dump faster than Claire’s Accessories cut hair. I was waiting to hear what else Florence had to say about Aimée’s chances when she caught sight of me.

‘Oh, Sadie, have you filled out your form yet?’

‘Er . . . not yet,’ I said.

I lied. Of course I had filled it in. Of course it was sitting on the table in the lounge, ready to be signed off at the bottom by Aunt Lilah, who was the owner of the registered salon where I was doing my apprenticeship. Where I had been doing my apprenticeship. Until she fired me.

‘Well don’t forget, will you?’ Florence winked at me. ‘They have to be in soon.’

I don’t mind saying that our lecturer thinks I can cut hair. She may say that Aimée’s in with a chance if she speeds up a little, but Florence reckons I’ve got ‘real talent’. The previous week I’d come top for my colouring. Florence said she thought it was professional standard.

‘You’re a performer, Sadie, even under pressure – which makes you ideal for any sort of competition situation. I don’t want you to miss out on a chance like this.’

That’s why I wanted to enter. That’s why I’d had my heart set on it, right up until Aunt Lilah struck on Saturday. But I didn’t feel like I could tell Florence about what had happened in the salon. She might have said it was my fault – which sounded about right. And I didn’t want her to guess for one minute that maybe I’d tripped myself up and tried something out that the customer didn’t necessarily want.

‘You need to be objective about your performance,’ Florence was always telling us. ‘It’ll help you improve. You need to be able to stand back and say, “I did that well” or “I didn’t do that as well – I need to work on that.” That way you’ll keep getting better. If you make the same mistakes over and over and clients complain, then the chances are you’re just being arrogant.’

I thought back to Saturday. Mrs Nellist hadn’t complained about her new style. I was convinced that she liked her hair how I did it. But maybe I shouldn’t have done it at all. I should have gone and got Aunt Lilah away from those Kit Kats and handed her the customer. I should’ve carried on sweeping up and washing heads. If I had, then I’d still have my job and I’d be handing in my form for the competition, and I wouldn’t have been worrying about what was going to happen next instead of concentrating on my class.

We spent the morning learning about contraindications for perming and did porosity and elasticity tests on each other’s hair. Aimée was my partner and she took this as a licence to yank strands out of my scalp. This was not only painful, it was also annoying, being that I’d spent about half an hour before college twisting my hair up into a perfect French pleat. All through last year I’d had this customised ‘Hairstyle a Day’ calendar that Aunt Lilah and Uncle Zé had given me for my fifteenth birthday. It was the most perfect present and I was gutted when it had finally run out on my sixteenth birthday. I secretly hoped they’d get me another one, but they got me vouchers instead because Aunt Lilah said I was ‘too difficult to buy for these days’. Vouchers didn’t tell you what hairstyle to wear every single day of the year and how to do it. Without that calendar I was on my own. I mean, I had to decide for myself. That morning I’d decided on a French pleat, and now Aimée Price was busy dismantling it.

‘Wow, Sadie, you hair is so porous –’ (yank) ‘– must be all the chemicals you use. You really shouldn’t perm it, you know.’

‘But I’m not going to perm it, Aimée – we’re just doing this for class, right? This is an E-X-E-R-C-I-S-E.’

I swear, sometimes I wondered why I was doing this class, instead of training to be a rocket scientist or a neurosurgeon. I’d got some decent exam results last year and my predicted grades for this year’s batch were pretty good. But some of the girls who wound up doing hairdressing were dumber than a box of hair. Were they really dumb though? I mean who’d just lost their job? Them or me?

‘D’you think I’m thick or something, Sadie?’ said Aimée, like she’d read my mind.

‘No?’ I said, not even attempting to sound convincing.

‘Because you act like you’re all superior and I am actually an incredibly intelligent, motivated and sensitive person.’

‘OK,’ I said, although I felt the words ‘frighteningly stupid, lazy and dumb’ summed her up better.

‘My nan brought me up, you know,’ continued Aimée, like I was interested or something, ‘and she would never do a thing for me. She always says, “you want something, Aimée? Well, go get it. You can have anything you want in this world, but the catch is you have to work out how to get it yourself.”’

‘Oh,’ I said.

The truth is that I wasn’t interested in Aimée Price’s damage. I mean we all have our own tragic childhoods to overcome, don’t we?

‘So now, specially because my Nan’s getting old, so she can’t help me,’ Aimée said, ‘every time I have a task to do I just say to myself, “You want it – you work out how to go get it, girl.”’

And I’ll bet she’ll have that on a bumper sticker when she gets her first pink-with-matching-interior car, I thought.

‘You girls finished up there?’ interrupted Florence.

‘Sadie’s hair is really porous,’ said Aimée, snapping back from Aimée-Price-Self-Motivator into hairdresser mode.

‘Acid perm lotion for you then, Sadie, if you were ever thinking of getting your hair permed, which I wouldn’t advise by the way. Alkaline for you, Aimée.’

‘You want it – you work out how to go get it, girl,’ Aimée repeated in case I hadn’t heard.

Oh, purlease . . .

Usually I was 100 per cent absorbed in my college day – I mean, compared to school it was a dream come true. Nobody blanked me at college; there were no ex-best friends like Shonna Matthews, who’d made my life a living hell last year. I had no ‘history’. I didn’t have to hide out in the library or the music room, nobody called me ‘donor girl’ and nobody knew I had a nerdy cousin Billy who played guitar. At college the teachers talked to you like you were a grown up and so mostly you behaved like one. Mainly I liked the sense that I was moving onwards with my goal, that even though the steps were small they were all in the right direction.

But that Monday just didn’t feel positive. That Monday all I could think about, all day and even on the bus home, was the wretched competition form on the lounge table that needed Aunt Lilah’s paw-print. And all I passed on that bus journey home, in between the skanky fried chicken shops, were hair salons and barbers. I had never really noticed just how many there were. Headlines, Concept Hair, Cissor’s Palace, Curl Up ’n’ Dye, Trimmers – I must have passed at least twelve along Roman Road alone. How was it that somehow I’d wound up without a job? I had no excuse – there were millions of salons out there. I just had to find another apprenticeship. But the memory of being fired still felt too hard and too raw, and for now all I could do was to look on with envy at these other salons and the people who worked in them. Were they better than me? Were they cleverer? It felt like they must be because they had jobs and I didn’t.

And then just as I got off the bus I saw Mrs Nellist. I knew it was her because her neat little head looked slightly rosy in a certain light.

‘Hello, love,’ she said vaguely, and then she really recognised me and her face lit up. ‘You know I’m glad I run into you,’ she said, ‘I’ve had so many compliments about me hair. The family were over on Sunday and my granddaughter just couldn’t get over it, and my son. They love the shape and the colour. You are clever, y’know. I was going to pop into the salon and tell you, but I don’t have to now. Ta-ra!’

And with that she was off, her little pink head bobbing away down the road, leaving me nodding and shaking my own head with the huge irony of it all.

4

This Was Starting to Sound Good

The trainee hairdresser (or barber) should be open to suggestion and input from professionals, clients and their peers.

Guideline 4: Thames Gateway Junior Apprentice Hairdresser (or Barber) of the Year Award

An hour after I got home, when I was just settling down on the couch with a cup of tea and the laptop to distract myself from the anxiety of not having an apprenticeship, the buzzer went. I’d been about to log on to this site I used to chat on all the time when I was really lonely last year. It’s www.girlswholikeboyswhoplayWoW.com and I found it when my cousin Billy was in Nerd Frenzy Mode and playing World of Warcraft the whole time. I used to chat to Groovechick2 on there – she always had something positive to say. Lately though she seemed to have disappeared. She never responded to my updates about how cool my boyf was or how great college was. Then again, I wasn’t online so much these days, so I guess she’d found someone else to talk to.

But today I kind of felt like I needed her. It was definitely a Groovechick2 moment. I wanted to tell her about the whole firing thing. I wanted to say Feel like world is imploding. Lost my job, lost my purpose – something like that. Maybe some friends are just there for the hard times. Maybe they feel like you don’t really need them when things are great.

The buzzer went again. I got up off the couch and picked up the handset. It was my cousin Billy. Even in my less than great mood I noticed he was using way too much wax on his tips at the moment. You could even see it on the itty bitty security screen we have on our intercom. I must tell him some time. It doesn’t really do anything for him.

‘D’you wanna come up?’ I said.

‘I’m with Tony and Enrico,’ he said. ‘Can you come down?’

Enrico is Tony’s older brother. He’s twenty and so totally fit that you almost faint when he looks at you. He works in PC World in the workshop or something, so he’s always pretty cashed up. Recently he bought a nice car, which is where I found them when I made it down to the front entrance.

Tony was in the back seat and when he saw me he opened the car door and got out. I liked how he did it. In fact I like the way Tony does pretty much everything. I read in a magazine that after six months you stop liking the way your boyfriend does everything and you start hating it instead, but that hasn’t happened to me. We’d just had our first anniversary and I still even liked the way he got out of a car.

‘All right?’ he said and kissed me. He has to bend down like three feet to reach because I’m such a squirt.

Did I mention that Tony Cruz kissing me always makes me want to laugh? We’ve been together a whole twelve months, but I still can’t quite believe my luck – it’s so mental it makes me giggle. Tony is seriously a hot guy and I keep wanting to ask him, ‘What are you doing with me?’ In my most insecure moments – and I have tons of those, believe me – I think he’s picked me out for one of those horrible dares. Like, Do you dare to ask out the weird short girl with the shaky hands?

Sometimes I do ask Tony what he’s doing with me, and he goes, ‘I’m waiting for a bus – what the hell kind of a question is that?’ And his voice goes up at the end and he nods the Tony Cruz nod because he is just soooo positive about life.

I’m never so optimistic though and I have to ask, ‘But why are you waiting for it with me?’

‘Because I like you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you have brown eyes and a cute little mouth and – I dunno, Sadie. You do good hair.’

Tony always kisses properly. He generally greets me with a snogfest, and this time in the car park was no exception. And as usual a member of at least one of our families was present: Enrico was peering at me in the wing mirror of his car. I could see him out the corner of my eye while Tony and I were kissing. I should have been used to it of course. At first it was just Uncle Zé, but lately I’d noticed that it was never ever just me and Tony; it was me, Tony and Billy or Enrico. Maybe it’s just a coincidence because we are all mates, but anyhow Tony and I have got used to doing all of our making out in public, because if we ever walk into a private space someone else invariably walks into it two seconds later. It’s generally Uncle Zé holding an everyday household object, like a cast iron saucepan or an electric carving knife, in a threatening manner.

‘In my country you would have a chaperone, anak,’ says Uncle when I complain about it.

‘Yes, tito, but we’re not in your country,’ I say.

‘Yes, but I’m still your uncle!’

You can’t argue with that. You could try, but the fact is immoveable even if it is completely irrelevant.

Tony stopped the snogfest and I finally focussed on the here and now.

‘What’s going on then?’ I said in the general direction of Billy and Enrico when I got my breath back.

‘We want to talk to you, if you and my brother have finished eating one another,’ shouted Enrico, smiling at me through the car window so that my knees went weak and I felt completely disloyal to Tony for just a nano-second. But I mean really – just because you’re on a diet doesn’t mean you can’t look at the menu, does it?

There is quite possibly nothing more thrilling than travelling in a car with your hot boyfriend, your cousin (who, thanks to a great haircut, no longer looks like a geek even if he is one and is using too much wax on his tips) and your boyfriend’s brother (who is better looking than God) at the wheel. Enrico has great taste in music too and the sound was just pumping out of the car stereo, vibrating through our chests – heaping possibility on top of possibility. I mean, who knew what was about to happen? It felt like anything could.

We drove slowly down towards Mile End and then turned left on to Roman Road. People stared into the car when we got to the crossroads, like they wanted to be riding our train, reading our book. Tony’s shoulder was resting against mine. I was so happy that I had a shoulder and that he had a shoulder and that they were resting against one another. Luckily the small gestures made me happy, instead of HUGELY FRUSTRATED LIKE THERE IS A FURNACE SWEEPING THROUGH MY ENTIRE BODY, which is how Tony described his experience of our relationship most of the time.

‘Enrico’s come up with an idea about the salon thing,’ said my cousin Billy from the front passenger seat.

‘What salon thing?’ I felt my spine arch in irritation. ‘Are you wanting me to go back and apologise to your mum or something – get my old job back?’

Enrico pulled up at the kerb. ‘You can go beg Billy’s ma for your job back if you want, Sadie, but that wasn’t what I was going to suggest.’

‘OK . . . suggest away,’ I said.

I was flattered that Enrico was taking any interest at all in my life, being that he was so good-looking and successful and everything. I decided he must really like his brother a lot.

‘What d’you think of this place?’ said Tony.

Opposite the car was a salon I knew only too well. CISSOR’S PALACE – UNISEX HAIRDRESSERS it said, in red block lettering on a shiny black background. In the window I could see Misty with that faithful scrunchie securing her hair à la 1985. Aimée Price was probably in there somewhere too, boring some customer stupid with her motivational slogans.

Go get it, girl.

So what? Was Tony suggesting I go and ask Misty for a job?

‘You’ve gotta be kid–’ I started.

‘Not that one,’ said Tony. ‘This one.’

I hadn’t noticed but we were parked bang outside an ultra-modern salon with tinted windows and coloured spotlights. It was called Stylee Stylee, Roman Road. For this area it was pretty fashionable. I’d never been in it – in fact I was fairly sure I’d never even heard of it or seen it before.

‘Looks OK,’ I said. ‘What about it?’

‘It’s pretty new,’ said Enrico, ‘and it’s run by an old friend of mine.’

‘Oh?’

‘Dariusz Zengelis,’ said Enrico. ‘I was at college with him. He opened this place about three months ago – had a chair in Soho somewhere before – and I hear he’s looking for a Saturday person.’

Dariusz Zengelis was looking for a Saturday person. I, Sadie Nathanson, was looking for someone looking for a Saturday person. This was starting to sound good.

‘Sounds good,’ I said.

‘We thought maybe you should apply,’ said Billy helpfully.

‘Sure, I should apply,’ I said.

‘Cool,’ said Tony and he squeezed my hand.

‘Go on then,’ said Enrico, turning round and flicking his head towards the salon. ‘What you waiting for?’

What was I waiting for?

I wasn’t dressed for it. I didn’t even have my CV to hand. I needed to psyche myself up.

‘I can’t do it now,’ I said. ‘I’m not ready. I need to get my head together. I need my paperwork . . .’

‘Well, get it all together, girl.’ said Enrico, ‘Saturday morning – go in there early and mention that you know me. It might just help.’

5

Another Great Moment in My Life – No, Really