Free Am I Right or Am I Right? by Barry Jonsberg Page A

hair.
    “Well, I don’t know, really,” I said, not making the most confident start to the consultation. “A trim, I suppose. Get rid of the split ends and style it. Whatever you think.” I hated myself as soon as I made that last remark.
    The hairdresser examined my hair more closely.
    “We might be able to do something,” she said grudgingly, as if I’d asked her to weave a Persian carpet out of the fluff that gets stuck in the filters of tumble dryers. “Follow me, please.”
    The salon was plush, I must say. There were Aboriginal paintings on the walls, the lighting was discreet, and there was more stainless-steel gadgetry dotted about than you’d find in an average operating room. I started to really worry about cost. If push came to shove, I suppose I could have offered to sweep up hair to pay the bill, but I suspected I would have to accumulate enough to occupy a landfill site. I decided to worry about it later.
    It was great at first. I had to put my glasses down on a counter, which meant the Aboriginal art became decidedly more abstract, at least from my perspective. Then I leaned back in a soft leather chair and an apprentice washed my hair and massaged my scalp. There’s nothing like having someone else washing your hair. It takes you back to your childhood, when your mum used to lather your head into a frenzy. All I needed was a rubber duck to play with afterward and I would have been a happy girl.
    When she had made my hair squeaky, I was led back to a seat in front of a mirror and the hairdresser combed my hair, occasionally lifting a portion off to the side, for reasons best known to herself. Certainly she didn’t keep me informed of her progress. I couldn’t see what she was doing. Without my glasses I have the visual acuity of a fruit bat. But there was plenty of prodding going on. I gazed impassively at the blurred reflection in the mirror. Finally she spoke.
    “Who usually does your hair?” she said.
    I told her and she grunted. I got the distinct impression she looked upon Cheryl in much the same way a brain surgeon would look upon a faith healer.
    “Well,” she continued, “your hair is a challenge. It’s in appalling condition and the amateurish cuts you’ve had in the past mean there are limits to what I can do. I think it would be best if we started from scratch. I suggest we take a fair amount off the length…to about here.” She was showing me in the mirror, but I got only the haziest notion of what she meant. “Then I can style it, so it follows the curve of your cheekbones. Like this.” Again I squinted and again came up blank. “Does that sound all right?”
    Now, tell me. What should you say under these circumstances? I mean, I know I hadn’t been insulted personally, but it’s difficult to keep your composure when someone is implying your hair is beneath contempt.
    “Fine,” I said.
    I don’t know if this has happened to you. If it hasn’t, you’ll have to trust me. There is a defining moment in a hairdresser’s when you know, absolutely and unequivocally, that a disaster is occurring. It comes with the first snip of scissors just below your left ear and the sense of hair falling. Lots of hair. Hair that can never be returned. Hair today, gone forever.
    The worst part is that you know a scream of “Stop!” is going to achieve nothing, except possibly a coronary for your hairdresser.
    I went rigid with terror. Sweat glistened on my forehead. The spawn-of-Satan hairdresser carried on blithely snipping, huge swathes of hair flying around manically. My head was getting lighter, literally and metaphorically. In the end I shut my eyes. I resisted the urge to stick my thumb in my mouth and start sucking, but it was difficult.
    The rest of the procedure was a blur. The snipping and slicing seemed to go on forever. Then there was a vigorous massage of the scalp with something greasy and a finale with a hair dryer and comb. Eventually, she declared she was done. I stood