G - At Alfredo's

I must be a whore when it comes to hairdressers - a slag with a
dirty, lipstick-thick grin and eyelashes like blackened fishbones. I'm
a vicious flirt; I have broken hearts. I am a rogue who slips away into
the night after the first appointment and is never seen again.

Look now; I'm being too hard on myself. I was with Trillo's for years
before I even knew what could be done with my hair. I may have played
the field after that for a while - now and then to the Gentleman's
barbershop, a trim or two at Trillo's, a one off visit to a small
outlet in Chesterfield? I took the hand of opportunity when it was
offered, I won't deny it. Then, of course, on my mother's
recommendation, I settled down with Darren at Mortimer's. Expensive
little place, but good and reliable. I tried to stay committed this
time, and have managed for a good couple of years now. But being in
Norwich, far away from my salon, I grew restless and was tempted. My
locks were becoming unmanageable, and people were saying I should give
in and at least get the back brought up. I held out - I don't know how
- and now I'm back in the old Parish for the summer. I've been reunited
with Darren, had the back brought up, got layered, and been told to
come straight back as soon as any more follicle dilemmas surface.
Everything should be fine now.

Except I've got this job at Alfredo's, you see. I mean, it's only a
job - that's what I keep telling myself. Nine hours light labour, with
a break for lunch, for thirty pounds in a sharp white envelope. Honest
work for an honest chap. Supposedly.

But today, Alfredo commented, briefly, on giving me a 'shampoo' after
his holiday. It slipped out, very neatly and squarely, in his brash
Italian accent. A shampoo's a shampoo, you might say, but I know very
well what it will lead to. I've too weak a will to protest, even
feebly, when he comes at me with his razor. Alfredo always uses a razor
- it's one of his trademarks, I suppose. A lady today said quite
firmly, "Then a trim, but not with the razor." Alfredo sighed sadly,
opened his hands in despair and replied with warmth and charm, "You've
got two choices. I can do it badly with the scissors, or I can do it
well with the razor." Our lady was soon persuaded.

I must have spent too long gazing idly at his handsome strokes and
deft turns, in between folding the towels and sweeping the floor. He
can't have failed to notice my appreciation of his art. I should
instead have spent more time staring out of the front window, watching
people go past. Tracking their movement across the front of the shop is
a tricky game I play with myself. If they are coming from the left, and
are on the opposite side of the road, they will first appear, from the
neck up, in the front most mirror on the right hand side of the shop,
going past the Gentleman's barber shop. They can then be seen
progressing rapidly and erratically across the many panes of the fitted
furniture dealers' shop window, before arriving, in plain view, across
the street from where I slouch. They make their way, left to right,
across the front of Alfredo's and disappear briefly, only to re-emerge
on the front most left hand mirror, having just past the Security,
Surveillance and Technical Services boutique. Naturally, if they are
coming from the opposite direction, the sequence is reversed, and I
have yet to succeed in tracking them if they are walking on our side of
the road. If this is the case, they first emerge in the reflection of
the barber shop window, which is in turn reflected in our right hand
mirror. They then appear to leap dizzyingly from one place to another
before they eventually cross the front of the shop, and do so again
after they have passed it.

Perhaps I already devote too much time to these observations. My time
would be better spent, one would argue, on increasing the efficiency of
my performance. Even the simple task of gowning the clients can be
greatly improved upon; at the moment I find that in their confusion
they parry my efforts to approach the right arm with the right sleeve,
and frequently try to escape my clutches before I have tied the sash at
their waist. I need to work on a set of instructions that sound clear
and comforting without being patronising.

My technique for washing their hair also needs to be revised and
developed. More than once, Alfredo has directed pained looks at my
attempts, and tried in vain to put in words the secrets that he knows
so well. I am not simply washing the clients' hair, after all, but
giving them a relaxing scalp massage, seducing them to the licentious
ways of the hair house. As far as I understand it so far, I need, above
all, to be firm and fast, and to rub the shampoo in as if I were
trowelling oil onto a canvas, with a kind of professional passion and
controlled zest. Alfredo informs me, very kindly, that it will come
quite naturally as I progress.

Serving the tea and coffee, meanwhile, is something of a memory game.
Two brown sugar sachets are to be handed out with coffee, two white
sugar sachets with tea. A carton of cream is served with coffee, a pot
of pasteurised milk with tea. Both are served with a spoon laid atop
the saucer, alongside the cup, upon a tray, with a biscuit. The teabag
is put in a pot, which is filled with hot water - the hinged lid is
closed. The strange little plastic coffee filters, complete with coffee
inside them, are placed on top of the cup. They are filled with hot
water, and then a lid is placed on top. The filters themselves are
thrown away and the lids are washed and saved. That is all I can
remember at present.

The other tasks - sweeping up, replacing magazines, folding towels,
moving towels, hanging towels out to dry, rearranging chairs, washing
up - are only a matter of speed and precision. This too will come in
time. Engaging the clients in cheery conversation, however, is
something I fear I will never completely succeed at. Since they are
essentially my means of income, I fear their every negative reaction,
and thus limit myself to behaviour which is becoming of a young
gentleman. This is not my natural approach to matters. When they ask
about my personal life and successes, I must avoid recounting my plans
to become a vagabond and defy all institutions as kindly as I am able.
I can never stray into the realms of that strange and insolent humour
that I exchange happily with Manley, Joe Hell and others. I am
certainly barred from singing inanely and calling the clients whores
and thieves.

If only there were some grand and tragic betrayal of self that I could
muster up from the situation. If only I were a traitor to the cause.
Instead, I am forced to conclude (and even this very nice, simple
writing style betrays it,) that I have one foot in the real world. I
await the scraps of madness that will save me from a slow death. Come
back, harpies - all is forgiven!

But more to the point: how will I keep my secret from Darren?