The evolution of my life through haircuts
My hair's strange journey through an eventful and diverse life
Before you read this, you must bear in mind two important facts.
Fact #1 — my hair has been poker straight since birth.
Fact #2 — permanent waves, curling irons, heated rollers etc. do not work on my hair. (See Fact #1)
England, age five
My silky, fine blond hair falls just below my shoulders. I have just started at a new girls’ school where the uniform rules are very strictly enforced. Each morning my mother wrestles my hair into two tight braids. She finishes each off with the regulation navy blue ribbon and I set off to school with my 10-year-old sister (short, curly brown hair). Each afternoon we return. My heart is heavy, knowing I have lost one or both ribbons. Each morning there is a tirade as the loss is revealed. I become increasingly anxious, lying await at night, dreading the morning. Eventually my abject state penetrates to my father. His patient and gentle cross examination uncovers the source. “This is about ribbons?” he asks in astonishment. “Cut her hair!” he orders. An aunt with scissors is summoned. Soon my blond locks lie on the floor. As the sun-lightened areas fall away, darker hair is revealed. I am now a small, brown, smiling mushroom. Peace reigns.
England, university years
Every few weeks I leave my Chelsea bedsit and take the tube to Knightsbridge. I cross the road by Harrods and mount the stairs to the very exclusive salon of Raymond, Mr. Teesy Weesy, the first of the celebrity hair stylists. Glancing to the front salon, I check to see if any movie stars are present, then I cross into the spacious rear portion of the establishment. I sit in front of a mirror for the next several hours while a very charming, but very serious young man spins around me on a small stool, cutting my dry hair one strand at a time. Periodically, a supervisor comes by to check the progress of this training up to Raymond’s standards. Several hours later I emerge, having paid the princely sum of five pounds. My haircut is stunning.
England, first job
Now I have money. Every few weeks I travel to Bond Street to the salon of Vidal Sassoon, who brought celebrity hair stylist to a whole new level. A charming young man (not Vidal) cuts my hair. I emerge an hour later, many pounds poorer, with an aggressive, asymmetric bob. I ignore the other young women also emerging with the identical cut. I am the cat’s pyjamas! Montreal, the motherhood years
I am at home with a baby, bad hair, and very little money. Pregnancy has done something to my hair, which no longer falls perfectly straight, but appears to have acquired some waves in odd places. Foolishly (see Fact #1) I get what is called a shag cut. It is a disaster! The first time I wash it, I realize that no previous experience has equipped me to deal with these short layers. A friend sends me to Tony. Enthusiastically he says he will give me a light body perm. I explain Fact #2 to him. He laughs. “Don’t worry, it will be beautiful” he exclaims. When the tiny perm curlers are removed and the solution rinsed from my hair, I raise my head to look in the mirror. Did I scream? I have a tight, pale grey Afro. That evening I am scheduled to travel with a friend to join our husbands at an industry banquet downtown. I call to tell her I cannot leave the house. “It can’t be that bad,” she says. Two hours later she arrives. “You’re right, it is that bad, but you’re coming anyway,” she states.
New York, early thirties
We live and work about an hour outside Manhattan. The choice of hairdressers is bewildering. One night at a party, I spot the perfect haircut across the room — a precision cut bob. The owner of the lovely hair tells me she does not go to a salon but to a woman who works out of her house. I call and she agrees to take me on. When I turn up at her house I am astonished to find a very upscale residence, and I am greeted by a charming, and obviously rich woman. She tells me her husband does not want her to work at a salon, but she is lonely. For the next few years I visit her kitchen regularly. I get superb haircuts. Hamilton, the law firm years
Much water under the bridge, and back in Canada, I have forsaken my life as a chemist, gone to law school and emerged as a litigator. I work for a couple of lovely law firms, then open my own. There are years of excellent blunt cuts from Albert, then from Jennifer, who is a genius with delicate foil highlights. Then the first blow falls. I have breast cancer. It is only stage one, but chemo is recommended. Turns out I can’t tolerate it, but just one dose causes all my hair to fall out. Fortunately, before treatment, I had visited two lovely ladies at a wig shop in Stoney Creek. They found me a wig that precisely and uncannily matched my own hair. They even undertook to shave my head at the right time. Now I keep my head concealed at all times, in various headcovers at home, or under the wig in public. No one, not even my husband is allowed to see my scalp. Claire, my four-year-old granddaughter, makes an eloquent submission to be an exception. After all, she does occupy special status in my heart. I tell her the sight will scare her. She begs to differ. We go in the bathroom and lock the door. She stares at my revealed skull for a few minutes then announces “You look like an old man.” Days later we are baking cookies. I turn at a noise behind me to find Claire wearing my wig. We both burst into giggles. Hamilton, later
In the months following, things are stirring under my wig. I am producing prickles, strange grey spikes. When they are about an inch long, the second blow falls. I have a new diagnosis of endometrial cancer, stage four. Surgery is followed by chemo. There are new chemicals and I make it through the treatments, but lose my grey spikes. Then I am in a glorious period called remission. I am relishing my life. New hair is growing. It is a very strange confection of whirls, curls and spikes. It is also a very strange pinkish grey colour. When it is just over an inch long Jennifer works her magic to transform it to a more human dark blond colour. We discuss highlights after the next inch. Alas, blow number three falls. Remission is over and more chemo is planned. Baldness looms. One morning I gaze at my uncontrollable spiky curls that may have about a month of existence left. Suddenly I know what I need — a haircut! No time for appointments, I scurry to find someone to take me as a walk in. Soon I am seated in a chair in a beautiful, bright salon. Meghan skilfully and gallantly tackles the chaos. An hour later I step into the sunshine, refreshed and energized with a neat pixie cut. As the door closes behind me, I realize something. That was almost certainly my last haircut.