The haircut & the long walk to the station

I recognised her immediately: it was the bun, pulled back tightly enough to reveal the throbbing of the veins in the forehead, forcing the lines around the eyes into gentle submission, rendering futile any attempt at a smile. I’m not sure she recognised me, though. At least, there was no spark of recognition in her eyes when I introduced myself in laboured Spanish, and said I had come for the haircut. Maybe the bun also precluded sparks of recognition.

“He venido por el corte de pelo. Soy modelo. Tengo una cita,” I said. At least I think that is what I said: it was what I had rehearsed, in any case.

“Yes. What is your name again. Why are you late?” she answered in perfect English. “You must be on time for these examinations: our students are very nervous about them.”

Ah yes, it was good to be back at the Instituto de Belleza, the place that had last year lured me in with the promise of a free haircut, and which had subsequently tracked me down across the ocean, and tempted me in again. The corridors still had that musty smell, the wood panelling looked a little shabbier, and there was, this time, conspicuously no interpreter. She must have been off relearning the lyrics to “Prisencolinensinainciusol”.

Last time, my hair had been cut in a lavish courtyard where, surrounded by examiners, a poor student had made a valiant attempt to tame my Covid head. I was surprised this time to be taken past the door leading to the courtyard and into a brightly lit room with a row of chairs laid out as in a salon. This was not the last of the surprises.

There were three women in the room, two of whom were holding clipboards and smiling: the other was wringing her hands rather nervously. She must be the student, I thought to myself. (I’m observant about things like that.) I couldn’t help but notice that, once again, there was no mirror. It was like a prison cell, I looked suspiciously at the bucket in the corner. The student stepped forward to meet me and introduced herself in Spanish.

“My English is not so good,” she then said, immaculately. “But I try to speak.”

I sat down, had the procedure explained to me by the woman with the bun; then one of the other women interrupted. Looking at the paper, she said “but you have been here before?” I couldn’t help but notice the tone of surprise in her voice.

“Yes, I said, about a year, 18 months ago.”

“And you have returned,” she said. “Why?”

“Because I received an email from the director, and I happened to be back in Málaga at the time you were doing your examinations,” I said.

This obviously satisfied her, as she stepped back, making a gesture to the student with her free hand. That was the last I heard her speak.

The student then explained to me what she was going to do. I had trouble following because the rapid monologue consisted mainly of Spanish words, none of which I really understood (despite having looked up some of the terms on line before coming in). I asked her, in appallingly bad Spanish, if she could explain in English.

“My English is not so good,” she said, again immaculately. “But I try to speak.”

She continued in Spanish. I sat there, open-mouthed, as it dawned on me that she had done what I had just been doing. She had memorised a couple of simple sentences and was trying to wing it. Whereas mine were “I have come for a haircut”, hers were self-deprecatingly enough about her inability to speak English. Her pronunciation was impeccable though – a mixture of Roedean and the Queen Mother – and she had me completely fooled.

Fortunately for me, the second examiner stepped in and took over, saying that the student wasn’t being tested here on her English, even though it was taught in the school. She explained that I had previously had a colour test and they would be using the same colour this time as there had been no reaction to the dye last time. “She will also do some highlights,” she said, and perform a final cut once that is done. “We will keep whatever length you wish,” she added. “But please be aware that if you have it cut short, we will not be able to put it back on afterwards.”

“But you will correct everything else if I don’t like it?” I asked.

“Ah yes,” she said, looking down at her clipboard, where a note had obviously been taken of a fatuous comment I had made the last time I was here. “The orange dreadlocks? The comedy hairstyles? Yes, we will make sure you are satisfied. You will just need to book an appointment. But I am sure you will be happy.”

“Fine,” I said, and let them get on with it.

The student bowed, rather unexpectedly, and led me to a seat. The first examiner gave her a sheet of paper, on which I assumed were written her instructions. I watched her as she read them silently, and couldn’t help but notice that (a) she moved her lips as she read, and (b) she didn’t seem very happy. She asked a question – what it was I do not know – but the response was a curt nod of the head from the first examiner. The student went into a little ante-room and busied herself with the mixing of some concoction or other.

Then she started the exam. Cut first, then colour, I was told. “It will look natural,” said the second examiner. The first one nodded her head in agreement. Then I sat, silently, while the student gave me a quick trim, then carefully applied the concoction she had mixed, which turned out to be the hair colour, explaining all the while in Spanish what she was doing. 

The examiners took careful notes, never interrupting, allowing her to work and chat at the same time. I made a mental note to improve my Spanish.

Then the student left the room, while the examiners inspected my hair. Then they left the room. I waited for perhaps thirty minutes or so, then the three of them came back in, took a look at my hair, and held a brief, excited conversation. Then I went to the sink and had my hair washed. Still the conversation raged.

“Is everything OK?” I asked.

“Si, si, si, si,” said the student.

I mentally shrugged my shoulders and kept staring into the middle distance. Next came the highlights, which she painted on with some sort of brush and silver foil. The brush looked like the one I did the skirting board with a while back. I could only hope she was being more careful than I had been.

Again, the student left the room, this time with the examiners. From the corridor, I could hear more staccato conversations; the unmistakable sound of footsteps running away down the corridor; more hushed words. Then silence. Twenty minutes of it. When the student came in again, she was unmistakably shaken, she might even have been crying out there at one stage. Her eyes were red and she was sniffing a little.

“Lo que está mal. ¿Estás bien?” I asked, trying desperately to remember some, any of my conversational Spanish.

“My English is not so good,” she said, rather sniffily this time. “But I try to speak. Is mistake. I sorry.”

“What sort of mistake?” I asked. The last time I had been here, the examinee had run away crying, leaving me momentarily terrified, when all she had done wrong was make a minor administrative error. I had no idea how severely these exams were marked. For all I knew, she might fail if she left the top off a bottle of hair dye.

“Big mistake,” she said. “Colour no good.”

“What do you mean, ‘colour no good’,” I said, losing my composure, my voice suddenly rising an octave. “Why no good? Why bad? How bad? What you do?”

“Please. I must wash hair or it badder,” she said, guiding me to the sink. 

So, she did. “Is OK,” she said.

Then she dried my hair, added in some mousse, and waited for the examiners to come in. The silence was total; the tension, palpable.

The examiners, studiously ignoring my questioning, walked around me, checking my hair from every angle. They measured lengths, stared carefully at my ears for what seemed like a minute, pushed my hair off my forehead, and smoothed it into a rough part.

“There is good news, and there is a little bad news too,” said the second examiner, finally. The first one nodded her head vigorously in agreement. “The student has done very well technically. The cut is exactly as it should be – perhaps still a little long, but well within the parameters of success. She is to be congratulated. The highlights have been done with great dexterity too, especially given the difficult circumstances, and she has achieved a very high mark for this.”

“What do you mean, ‘difficult circumstances’?” I said. “What has been difficult? I came here, I sat down, she did my hair. She’s a trainee hairdresser. What is difficult about it?”

“There was an error in the application of the colour,” said the examiner. 

“When she mixed it up, she, erm, mixed it up.”

“What?” I said. “What does that even mean?”

“She should have gone for a 6.1 but she used a 6.3,” she said, as if that would help me understand (these numbers may not be right, I was a little distracted at the time).

“I want to see my hair,” I said. “Bring me a mirror now, please.”
I turned around, expecting to see the two old men carrying the huge mirror in like last time, but there was nobody there. Instead, the first examiner handed me a small hand mirror, the size of a credit card. I took it, almost disbelievingly: I looked. It was at this point that the student left the room. I must have sat there for a good ten seconds, trying to comprehend what had happened. My mind simply refused to accept he evidence my eyes were supplying. There was no doubt about it, my hair was orange.

“Whadda wha huh?” I said. “What have you done? What the fuuu… I look like Donald Trump. You’ve made me look like Donald frigging Trump. Change it now. Now.”

“I’m very sorry sir, we cannot do it today. There is one more exam to do and, besides, the expert technician will only be here at the beginning of next week. We can make an appointment for you at reception on the way out.”

“On the way out?” I said. “You think I am going back to frigging Calahonda on the train and the bus looking like this? In public. On a train. You think…?”

“We can give you a hat, sir,” she said, helpfully pulling a beanie out of her pocket. “I’m very sorry, but we will put it right so you will be happy with it. That is our guarantee.”

Then they left the room. In came the woman with the excessively tight bun. She looked at me and smiled. I’d never seen her look so happy.
“Do you need an appointment? Maria Auxiliadora is available on Monday morning. She is our very best technician.”

I stood there, looking at her, my mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Even then I realised that simile was far too apt. I nodded my head and looked at the beanie in my hand. It was minute. Sizewise, it would have made a better condom than a hat. I made the appointment for 9am on Monday and left, walking along the street, desperately avoiding eye contact with anyone crossing my path. As I turned onto the main street, I saw a Chinese convenience store and went in. Thankfully they sold beanies. I bought one with “New York Yankees” written on it for 3€, and pulled it on, covering as much of my hair as I could.

Then I walked to the train station. As I was going down on the escalator, I could have sworn I heard someone humming “Hail to the Chief”.