Bad Hair Day

On Wednesday mornings Margaret went to Curl Up and Dye for her weekly wash and set. Margaret’s usual cup of tea was always waiting for her, a mini jammie dodger perched on the saucer. Margaret never ate the mini jammie dodger. Bad for the dentures. 

Pamela would greet her with the usual lipstick-stained smile and take Margaret’s coat. Gesture to the row of pleather chairs lined up in front of the row of spray-mottled mirrors. Every week the same rigmarole. It was becoming a bit of a nuisance. Pamela always made a big song and dance about the next bit, throwing out the black plastic cape like a matador. Once it was secured around Margaret’s shoulders, Pamela would grin at her in the mirror’s reflection.

“So, Margaret, my love,” she’d say, a tight ball of chewing gum working its way around her mouth. “Shall we try something different today?”

Margaret was a creature of habit. 

On Saturdays, she stayed at home and did the crossword. Far too busy out there for old ladies. On Sundays, she waited for the Sainsburys man to deliver her online food shopping. Then she unpacked it. On Mondays, she called her brother in Croydon to exchange details on the week’s activities and discuss the Sunday night news. On Tuesdays, she did the laundry. If it was raining, she took a taxi to the laundrette. Margaret didn’t have a tumble dryer. On Wednesdays, she went to Curl Up and Dye for her weekly wash and set. On Thursdays, she met Barbara for a pot of tea and a scone at The Busy Bean. Barbara usually brought her knitting along. On Fridays, she went for a brisk walk around the park while Karen came round to clean the house. Sometimes on Fridays Margaret would have a glass of red wine with her dinner. But only if it had been a particularly good week.

Margaret did not want to try something different today. As per usual.

Pamela swiveled her round in the pleather chair and gestured over to the hair wash sinks. Margaret didn’t like the hair wash sinks. The seats were too far down and the edge of the porcelain was too hard and the water was always a little bit too warm. The shampoo was different today. A menthol smell and a slight cold buzz on her scalp as Pamela worked it in. This annoyed Margaret.

“Feels different,” said Margaret with a huff. Pamela carried on. 

“Sorry, my love, did you say something? I was miles away.” Pamela was always miles away. She would jabber on and on about some nonsense or other until Margaret told her that wittering was a particularly unattractive quality. Pamela didn’t say very much after that. 

“I said it feels different,” repeated Margaret. Margaret didn’t like having to repeat herself. 

“Oh my goodness!” came the response. “Well look at that, my love. Gosh, that was a silly thing to do!”

Margaret could hear the panic in Pamela’s voice. She turned on the showerhead and quickly rinsed Margaret’s hair, sloshing water over the edges of the bowl.

“Don’t worry, my love, we’ll get this all sorted out for you. Just a little mistake.”

Margaret did not like the sound of this. Mistakes were made by people who failed to plan properly. Margaret didn’t make mistakes. Margaret never failed to plan properly.

“If I carry on rinsing for a while, the colour shouldn’t set in too much,” squealed Pamela. “Accidents do happen, Margaret!”

Margaret really did not like the sound of this. Sitting at the hair wash sink, wrapped in a plastic gown, Margaret felt vulnerable. Her head was cold from the menthol shampoo that was, quite clearly, not shampoo. There was nothing she could do but lay back and wait.

After another five minutes of rinsing and washing and combing and sighing, Pamela turned off the showerhead. Margaret could hear Pamela chewing her gum ferociously. 

“Now then, Margaret,” she began. She gave Margaret’s arm a little squeeze while she was talking. Margaret didn’t like that. “It looks much worse than it is because your hair’s still wet. Let me dry it off and we can assess the situation, ok, my love?”

Margaret sat back down in the pleather swivel chair and waited for her towel turban to be removed. As she watched with horror, Pamela unveiled the damage. Blue. Bright blue. 

“What on earth…?” whispered Margaret, her eyes wide and unblinking. 

“Listen, Margaret,” began Pamela. “I’m terribly sorry. One of the toner bottles looks just like one of the shampoo bottles and someone must have put it back in the wrong place. We’ve got a new girl who comes in to help after college, you see, and she’s not quite up to scratch yet.”

Wittering again, thought Margaret. Even at a time like this. 

“I can try and dye it out, my love, but it’ll probably just turn green if I do that, to be completely honest with you. I can think of a couple of things to experiment with that’ll make it look better.”

“Absolutely not!” shouted Margaret. Her hands were shaking as she snatched her coat off the hook and left. 

Luckily for Margaret, Wednesday mornings weren’t particularly busy at that end of town. Luckily for Margaret, there was a large white handkerchief tucked into her sleeve at all times. Margaret folded the large white handkerchief into a triangle and tied it around her head. Then Margaret walked very purposefully back to her house, with the pace of an old lady who does not wish to be sociable should she bump into an acquaintance.   

On Thursday, she did not meet Barbara for a pot of tea and a scone at The Busy Bean. On Friday, she did not go for a brisk walk around the park while Karen came round to clean the house. Margaret called Karen and told her she was sick. On Friday, Margaret did not have a glass of red wine with her dinner. It had not been a particularly good week.