First Cut

The cramped attic above the salon apartment was lit by one light bulb encased in a fancy laced lamp shade. It took Sylvia down memory lane, reminding her of Solomon, who was so flamboyant he put finishing touches in unseen rooms. It smelled of about-to-disintegrate paper and mothballs. She had not been up here for… she calculated when she installed the high-tech receivers and coding antennas… four years ago. But even then she hadn’t bothered touching the boxes.

“Any room up there?”

“Oh sorry dove, miles away, come on up, mind your head.”

She shuffled back towards the stacked boxes and pulled out a battered suitcase marked “Sprout”. When Sammy had found a semi-comfortable position with one leg dangling through the manhole, she began her story.

“I was born in England, my mum died right after I came out. I don’t remember my dad much either, he was in and out of prison. Back then I thought he was a train driver. He used to joke he was going back to the rails or going off the rails. He shipped me off to Australia when I was around seven.”

She clicked the rust stiffened clasps and loosened the lid. It revealed piles of yellowed notebooks.

“On the ship they said we were going to the ‘mucky country’ and I knew it the minute I stepped off the gangplank and got covered in red dust. The heat was overwhelming, I remember so much sweat dripping down the backs of my legs I thought I’d weed myself.”

Sylvia took the topmost book out and opened a page. It had a battered boarding pass glued in and underneath it 'My trip to Asstrayla’ in wobbly handwriting.

“I came in on SS Rule the Waves. I was seasick the whole way, never been on a boat since, so don’t try to make me.” She glanced at the man and smiled.

“After we disembarked, we sat on a bus for hours, still dressed up in our thick woollen jackets, knee-high socks and good solid shoes. The air singed the back of my throat, the dust from the open windows found its way into my ears, nose and armpits. The countryside was so strange dry, flat, endless. At last, we arrived at a red brick house in the middle of nowhere. A wall of grey nuns stood waiting. I remember getting off the bus and looking at my feet, one sock still up, the other wrinkled around my ankle. A huge ant scuttled over my shoe, the nuns glared at me squinting at them into the sun through my dusty glasses. I had no idea what to make of that alien place, with unfriendly looking natives, but I bent down and yanked up the fallen sock, picked up my case and stepped forward into my future. Oh look, here are my old glasses.”

She picked up a pair of thick-framed glasses bound up at the bridge and the hinges by duct tape.

“I had these until I was about seventeen, I got ever so good at fixing them. Solomon bought me a new pair… oh but I’m jumping ahead. What else have we got in here?”

She turned the crackling page with a painted nail.

 “Anyway, as soon as I was sixteen I ran away, realised no one was coming to rescue me, so I packed this old suitcase again and walked out the door.” Sylvia took a dog-eared envelope out.

“I traipsed for hours and hours, guessing I was going in the right direction to the city. At last, I got picked up by four surfers coming back from the coast. That was an eye-opener, three hours in that van and I learnt more than in ten years at the orphanage! They told me about India and America, Asia, the rest of Australia. By the time they dropped me in Perth I was dizzy with possibility.

“It was 1972, I had no money, and I knew nobody. But I did have an address. See, when I was about 12, I received my one and only letter from England.” She tapped the envelope on her palm.

“My Dad had died, and a friend sorted through his possessions. They found a folder that contained the details of his two next of kin; me and his brother. The brother, my uncle Arthur, had emigrated to Australia as a ten-pound Pom a few years earlier. I met him once I think, but I had heaps of uncles in the early days.” She closed the lid of the suitcase and slid it to one side and yanked out another box. She rummaged around in the tissue paper, frowning.

“What’s in here?”

She pulled out a wig, it was in the style of a Louis XV courtesan, a high pile of white silky hair decorated with plastic flowers and mauve sequined ribbons.

“One of Sol’s wigs! I thought we got rid of them all.”

She stroked the wig which released faint wafts of talcum powder.

“73 Rosella St, Hardup. The travellers dropped me at the bottom of the street. Number 73 was a shop, The Wavy Lady Hair Salon.

“Through the window, I saw two men standing at the counter. The short wiry one waving a pair of scissors around like a windmill. The second, tall and svelte, had his hand gripped on one hip and stabbed a long-handled comb in the air at the other one. He shouted ‘We can’t manage this place on our own any more Artie, I need more help, and we have to grow. You can be such a stubborn, selfish little…’ As I walked through the door, the tinkle of the bell interrupted the tirade and they both turned and stared at me. I soon discovered that my Uncle Arthur was a hairdresser, as was Solomon, his partner. They rarely agreed, but loved each with a passion that wasn’t accepted so much in those days.

"I said ‘hello’. They said ‘Good gracious!’ Arthur said ‘We’re closed,’ Solomon countered ‘don’t be so rude, Artie, you have the manners of a toothpick! How can we help you today, dove?’ They both scurried towards me but backed away as if a wall had hit them. I realised that my last wash had been before a long walk on a dusty road. Then three hours in a van with four hippy surfers, well you get the picture.”

She wafted her hand in front of her nose.

“I said ‘I’m sorry, I’m looking for Arthur Sprout.’ They frowned at each other and then at me. Solomon shrugged at Arthur. Arthur didn’t move except for his face which curled itself into a deep frown back at Solomon. Sol rolled his eyes and folded his arms, frustration oozing out of him. They had a sort of silent argument and finally Arthur said ‘I’m Arthur’, followed by an awkward silence.

“I was terrified. I hadn’t planned beyond this point. There were no customers in the salon. The heat of the summer crept under the door and up the backs of my legs, my damp dress, my best dress of the two I owned, caught under my sweaty armpits. My hair, dry and crinkly at the best of times, was all that held the old duct-taped glasses on my greasy nose. I knew I had to say something fast before they booted me out, so I dropped my suitcase and pulled the letter out and said, ‘My name is Sylvia Sprout, I’m your niece.’ Both sets of eyebrows raised then furrowed. 'Who?' said Arthur. I held out the letter, 'Sylvia, daughter of Alfred.' Arthur looked blank.

"'Freddie Sprout?' I added. A flash of recognition passed his face and he pincer'd his thumb and forefinger and tweaked it out of my hand without getting too close. Their earlier differences forgotten, Arthur and Sol peered down their noses together to read the evidence.

‘This, er,’ Arthur surveyed my shabby excuse of a young woman and couldn’t think of a suitable noun, ‘thing, is related to me?’ Arthur possessed zero family skills, no friendly hugs, no sympathetic pats, no familial warmth. He was as tall as me and half as wide with thick black hair gelled back and a curled quiff dropping onto his forehead. Two long sideburns cradled his jaw which elongated his face. He twitched under the slightest of stresses, all exaggerated by a handlebar moustache. His dress style was as close as he could get to fashion in Perth those days. A yellow silk shirt unbuttoned to his breastbone tucked into skin-tight denim pants that flared in sync with his nostrils. He blew through them with disdain and looked at me as if I was a discarded toenail.

‘I was wondering if… if I could stay?’ I asked with a timidity I’d never displayed with even the nuns. There was a moment’s silence before Solomon exploded like a tickled kookaburra. Arthur tossed me a tight fake smile and yanked the cackling Sol by the arm to the back of the shop. I didn’t hear the conversation because an ice-cold feeling crept up my spine and over my head, a dark precipice opened before me and everything went black.

“I came around as Sol wafted smelling salts under my nose. ‘Wakey wakey, dove!’ I could see Arthur standing a little way away holding a handkerchief under his own nose. He sprayed cologne in the air which nearly knocked me out again if it hadn’t been for Solomon dripping brandy through my lips. ‘You all right, Cinderella?’ he squawked. ‘So it’s decided then, you can stay here and work for your board.’ Arthur stomped to the window and ripped off the sign that said, 'HELP WANTED FOR FREE HAIRCUTS'. He screwed it up and flung it in the bin.

“They gave me a room above the shop where Sol lived, an empty box room, only floorboards and a small window which looked out on a scruffy backyard. Over the next week they set me to work in the salon. At first, I swept the floor, washed the towels, and cleaned. Solomon and Arthur enjoyed the Cinderella scenario for a while but eventually Sol couldn’t help himself morphing into my fairy godmother. He fed me cooked meals and cakes, gave me a makeover, tamed my hair, and taught me how to do manicures and pedicures. He bought me dresses and did my make-up. I sometimes felt like his doll, a doll he had only ever dreamed of as a boy. Then he promoted me to receptionist. The business was gaining a reputation. The Wavy Ladies, Sol and Arthur, entered competitions and specialised in styling for Cabaret acts. Occasionally Sol would take to the stage himself. He had a collection of wigs, gowns and even high heels. He looked magnificent and could sing a mean ‘Madame Butterfly’. I managed all the bookings along with the day-to-day business. After a while, they trained me up to cut and colour. But hairdressing didn’t come easy to me, you know.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head, the curls at the end of her bobbed hair kissing her cheeks.

“Sol gave me a polystyrene mannequin head with a training wig on it. He showed me what to do and I’d go off and practice with it in my room. Every day I’d get out a new wig and set to work after dinner. I developed my own style, chopping into the hair giving it a shaggy look that was to become all the rage. Sol, and even a begrudging Uncle Arthur, were impressed and booked me my first client. His name was Dickie, a friend of Sol and Arthur. The poor man. I washed his hair first and we were having a great chinwag. I gowned him up, just so, made him a cup of tea, got him comfortable and took hold of the scissors. I snipped away until the hair was at the stage I needed before I shagged it up. By now we were firm friends, sharing stories, telling jokes. I seized the scissors for the final styling flourish, my trademark, and began to chop away into the hair. But Dickie screamed and suddenly I had blood running down my scissors and wrists. He leapt up howling and tripped over the hairdryer cord, sending the trolley over and he fell face first onto a pair of tongs which singed a V shape into his polyester shirt and skin below. Horrified I looked down to see an earlobe with a small gold stud softly sitting on the pile of hair cuttings on the floor among the blood splatters. My first cut was a disaster. At the end of that terrible day Sol asked me to fetch the mannequin head. He removed the artfully styled wig to find it stabbed full of holes and gauges. The next day he took me to the optometrist. When I put on my new glasses, I felt like I’d been reborn. The world began to make sense, the salon became a lot cleaner and I never drew blood from a client again.”

Sammy gawked at her, shocked and mildly amused. Sylvia chewed her bottom lip.

“Oy! Don’t laugh, it was hideous!

“For three years Solomon and I lived above the shop together. We got on well, but Arthur, he seethed with jealousy, picked on me, belittled me. Arthur spent as much time at the shop as he could. But he detested that he had to go home after dinner and I got to stay here, with Solomon. Of course, I had no idea they were lovers! They were discreet, I was naïve. As Arthur’s unhappiness increased their discretion decreased. One night he stayed over, then another and before long it became regular, and for the first time, Arthur was happy. None of us wanted to wobble the trolley. But…”

Sylvia sighed, she examined the beams in the roof, as if looking for the strength from the two ghosts in the attic.

“The neighbours began to talk, see homosexuality was not cool, back then, you remember? Even less so in this backwater. Not much happened in Hardup, people worked, had kids and watched TV. No reality shows then to get your thrills. Business declined, someone crossed out ‘Lady’ and put ‘Gays’ on the shop front. People stopped saying hello at the shops. Arthur stopped talking to me, said it was all my fault.”

Sylvia shook her head and blinked, trying to evaporate the tears pooling in her eyes.

“That’s when Sol came up with the idea. ‘We should get married, dove.’ That was his proposal, over tea and toast at the breakfast table! It took a while to persuade Arthur, but Sol had a way with words.”

“So it wasn’t a real marriage then?”

“No, it was all a sham, but it worked. Arthur and Sol would often go away on trips; conferences, competitions. Sol won the Golden Scissors for most of the seventies, they dubbed him the Picasso of the hairdressing world. They left me at home to manage the business. Look here’s a postcard they sent me from Las Vegas.”

“Wish you weren’t here!!!!! Love Sol and Uncle Artie”, Sammy read it out loud and turned it over to see a fake Elvis standing outside a chapel.

“I often wonder if they didn’t get married in Vegas on that trip, he never let me call him uncle or Artie. Anyway, Sol didn’t win the Scissors that year, he withdrew from the salon, spending days in bed. Arthur was worried sick. It wasn’t long before we found out Sol had cancer.”

Sylvia swallowed at the lump of grief in her throat.

“We looked after him at home for a few months, but soon we needed a hospice. A terrible place, reminded me of the orphanage, no privacy, no dignity. For once Arthur and I didn’t bicker, for once we felt like family. The irony of such bleak times, the only time we felt any warmth from each other. We cried a lot and laughed too. Towards the end, we’d said our goodbyes, the doctor told us he had a few days, if not hours to live. The nurse had propped Sol up against his pillows, he fell in and out of a rasping doze. Then he opened his eyes. ‘The light’, he said. Arthur and I jumped up and placed our ears to his mouth. ‘Can you see the light, Solly?’ said Arthur, tears springing from his eyes. ‘Bright light’ he hissed. Arthur and I looked at each other, the time was near we agreed. ‘It’s OK Sol, we are here with you. What else can you see?’ ‘The light, my eyes, someone,’ ‘He can see someone,’ we nodded and squeezed a hand each. His breath drew in painfully and Arthur blurted out ‘Goodbye darling, goodbye, I love you,’ then broke down in tears and thumped the bed next to Sol’s emaciated form. Sol turned his head to me a fraction and looked deep into my eyes, ‘the light’. ‘Yes my dear Sol, is it getting closer? Is there anything I can do for you?’ Arthur’s sobs wrenched my heart and my own grief poured down my cheeks. Sol took a huge rattling intake of air, ‘Arthur, it’s his last breath!’ I cried out. ‘Noooooo,’ Arthur keened, ‘don’t leave us, Solly, please don’t go!’. And with that breath, that painful gasping inhale, Sol gripped our hands with the barely-there strength and said, ‘Just. Turn. Off. The. Fricking. Light!’ I believe our laughter kept Sol alive for many more days. It didn’t seem real after that, we thought we’d lost him. We started to invite friends in to see him. The room became party central! But eventually the day came. He left us at dawn, all of us in our sleep. No white light, no last words, no death rattle. Here one minute, gone the next, just like a good haircut.”