"She's Given You A Good Scalpin'" by SteDJ

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The year was 1979 and I was 14.

"Stephen, can you come downstairs!"

My mum’s voice rang out above the sound of my record player.

"Coming!" I yelled back, as I left behind the strains of ELO and trudged down to the kitchen, to be met by that unmistakable smell of ironing and the sight of my mum surrounded by piles of laundry.

"Are you sure Mr Rhys didn’t give you a list of things to pack for the trip?" enquired my mum, a tone of irritation in her voice.

It was Friday evening and I was due to set off early the next morning on a four-day visit to Cambridge with the church choir, where we would be performing choral concerts in a number of different churches in the area. How Mr Rhys, the choirmaster, had pulled this one off was a mystery, as no one would ever describe the choir of St Michael’s as anything approaching professional; more a rabble of enthusiastic amateur schoolkids.

"No, he didn’t say anything," I lied.

"Well, I’ve ironed you four white school shirts. Get me a pair of your grey school trousers and I’ll give those a run over with the iron and that should do."

"It’s OK, I’ll just wear my jeans, nobody will see them under my choir cassock," I argued.

"Bring me your grey trousers, Stephen, please. Now."

I reluctantly made my way back up to my bedroom, grabbed a pair of trousers, returned to the kitchen and threw them on the ironing board.

"Why on earth do you never empty your pockets?" said my mum, clearly exasperated at all the rubbish she pulled out.

"Hold on a minute… what’s this?" One particular piece of screwed up paper clearly caught her attention. "I thought you said Mr Rhys didn’t give you a list?"

Mum’s eyes fixed on the photocopied document and a frown spread across her face as she began to take in its contents. Meanwhile, I sensed trouble…

"Apart from a complete list of clothing and possessions that need to be packed, it also says here: ‘Parents should ensure that their sons have had a recent haircut before the date of departure. Hair MUST be off the collar and ears and out of the eyes. Dyed or shaved patterns in the hair are not permitted. It is likely that the choir will be photographed for publicity purposes during the trip and boys must maintain a high standard of personal appearance to this end’. And what’s this: ‘Please sign and return the tear-off slip to acknowledge receipt of this message and to agree to its contents.’ Stephen, where is the tear-off slip? It appears to have already been torn off. Where is it, Stephen? WHERE IS IT?"

"I don’t know," I continued to lie. The truth was, on seeing the haircut requirement, I forged my mum’s signature and returned it to Mr Rhys without saying a word to either party.

"Give me strength!" Sighed my mum. "I haven’t time for all this. Look at your hair! If you think Mr Rhys would be satisfied with that, you’ve got another thing coming. It looks like a bird’s nest; go get the scissors and cloth and I’ll cut it for you. As if I haven’t enough to do!"

"Oh mum, please, it’s not that bad. Why do I have to have it cut? Can’t we just tell Mr Rhys that the barbers were shut?"

"Barbers…. That’s a thought," said my mum, suddenly in pensive mode and glancing at her watch. "Why should I do it? I’ve a pile of ironing to finish, and it doesn’t get done by itself. It’s half past four and the barbers will still be open. Paul can do it; it will be money well spent. Quick, get your coat and if we get you there before five, problem solved."

"Oh no, please Mum, if I have to have it done, can’t you do it, like you usually do? Paul always cuts it too short. Please Mum…"

"STEPHEN! Do as you’re told. After your little game of deception, I’ve a good mind to tell him to scalp you, so watch your step from now on. Come on, hurry up."

Mum switched off the iron and grabbed her purse and car keys.

Paul’s Modern Gents’ Hairstylist, to give the barbers’ shop its full name, was a relatively modern establishment in the local shopping centre and was under the same management as the adjoining ladies’ salon, Maxine’s Hair Fashions. I think Paul and Maxine were married, and the premises were connected by a doorway with one of those curtains formed of multicoloured strips of plastic. I had often wondered what went on beyond that doorway, as depending on which barber chair you sat in while you had your hair cut, it was possible to detect strange smells and sounds coming from the ladies’ side.

"Looks like we’re in time," said my mum, as she frogmarched me into the barber’s.

"I’m sorry love, can you bring him back in the morning? It’s ten to five; I’m supposed to close at five and still I’m packed out," said Paul apologetically. The three chairs in the shop were occupied and there were four more customers waiting.

"Yessssss!" I whispered under my breath. It looked like lady luck was on my side and I had dodged the bullet.

"Oh, no, can’t you possibly fit him in? I know it’s terribly short notice, but he’s going away on a church trip tomorrow and he really needs a haircut," pleaded my mum.

"Just a minute, I’ll see what I can do," said Paul, putting his scissors and comb down on the counter and momentarily leaving his customer sitting in the chair under the brown striped cape. As Paul disappeared through the stripey curtain to the ladies’ side, I noticed that the customer in Paul’s chair was in fact one of my mates from school, David, and another schoolfriend, Nigel, was in the adjacent chair. Both appeared to be getting inconsequential trims. I never really liked meeting schoolfriends in the barbers as I always felt self-conscious and awkward whilst having my hair cut. Anyway, the three of us shared desultory greetings and I reassured myself that they would be finished and gone before there was any chance of me getting into the chair, so no harm done â€" or so I thought.

At that moment, Paul reappeared.

"One of Maxine’s colleagues can fit him in now if he doesn’t mind going through the other side," helpfully suggested Paul.

I was about to protest in the strongest possible terms. No way was I having my hair cut in a ladies’ hair salon…, but my mum cut across me.

"Oh, that will be great, thanks so much. You’re a lifesaver."

"Right then, if you’d like to follow me this way," said Paul, holding the striped curtain open for us.

As we disappeared through the doorway to Maxine’s salon, I heard the unmistakable sounds of David and Nigel giggling that I was getting a pink rinse and a perm and that they would be through to watch as soon as they were done with their own respective haircuts.

Entering the ladies’ salon was like entering an alien world. The place was dominated by the pungent smell of perm fluid and the atmosphere was warm and stuffy thanks to a bank of hairdryers working at full belt on a row of fierce looking ladies in hairnets parked beneath. Another row of women each in a pale blue smock with a pink towel tucked into their neck was seated facing a bank of mirrors, many with heaps of cut hair on the floor around the chair. I felt myself blushing with embarrassment as I started to attract attention from the clientele, and began to reflect on the unfortunate sequence of events that had led to me being there.

"OK, this is Doreen," said Paul, introducing me to a severe looking middle-aged woman dressed in a pink tabard with tight curly hair. She’ll take care of you in a couple of minutes as soon as she’s finished with this lady.

"OK young man, take a seat and I’ll be with you in a minute," said Doreen in a no-nonsense tone of voice.

"Right Stephen, I’ll leave you here and get back home to the ironing. You can walk home on your own. Here’s some money for your haircut. Behave yourself." Attracting Doreen’s attention, my mum gave her instructions, "Give him a good trim all round will you love, he needs it off his ears and collar, and take his fringe out of his eyes."

"No problem my dear," replied Doreen. "You won’t recognise him when I’ve got rid of that scruffy haystack off his head!"

With that, my mum disappeared out of the net curtained front door out into the shopping centre.

Doreen’s words really didn’t bode well. I sat there shuffling awkwardly not knowing where to put myself when Doreen piped up,

"Make yourself useful while you’re waiting young man. Pop through to the men’s and ask to borrow a pair of electric clippers and a barber gown, there’s a good lad." I sat there looking bemused and worried that my friends would still be there, ready to make more fun of me. "Now would be good. I’m nearly ready for you," snapped Doreen.

I got up and went back through the curtain, only to return a few moments later after another barrage of taunts from David and Nigel and armed with a vicious looking pair of clippers, but no barber’s gown â€" I was told they were all in use next door.

"Never mind, you can wear a ladies’ one," said Doreen taking the clippers from me. "After all, they all do the same job at the end of the day when the hair’s falling. Right, in the chair, young man. Let’s get you robed up."

Before I knew it, I was seated in front of the mirror and dressed in a long pale blue sleeved nylon gown, complete with a pink towel tightly tucked into my neck. Embarrassment wasn’t the word for it.

"Right, follow me please," commanded Doreen, and she led me across the salon to a reclined chair with a wash basin behind it. "Take a seat and put your head back."

At that moment, the front door burst open, and David and Nigel appeared, and on seeing me they collapsed into fits of laughter. "What a pretty frock!" guffawed David. "Where are his curlers?" joined in Nigel, creasing with laughter.

"You two, HOP IT!!" yelled Doreen. "Go on, OUT!!" It seemed nobody in their right mind would argue with Doreen, and the pair vanished as quickly as they had appeared. I was sure I hadn’t heard the last from them though; this would take some living down, and the clippers hadn’t even been fired up yet.

Doreen shampooed my hair thoroughly, the warm water coursing through my long locks as she vigorously massaged the sweet-smelling shampoo into my scalp. Water and shampoo ran over my face and got in my eyes making them sting, but as I tried to rub my eyes, Doreen barked at me to keep still and keep my hands on the arms of the chair.

Doreen finished by wrapping a pink towel round my head like a turban and directed me back to the cutting chair. With a look of grim determination on her face, she pumped the chair up, leaving my feet dangling in mid-air, before removing the towel from my head and combing out my wet hair.

"Right, let’s get cutting!" declared Doreen, and before I could blink, the scissors were in maximum attack mode, and mounds of heavy wet hair were raining down in front of my eyes and down the front of the blue gown and building up in a soggy heap in my lap. Doreen repeatedly lifted long sections of hair and stretched them up between her fingers before lopping off inches at a time with breathtaking efficiency. Every now and again, she sprayed my head with more water, wetting it down and making rivulets run down my face and making me wipe my face with my hand. This clearly did not amuse Doreen as she hissed,

"How many times do I have to tell you to keep still? Do you want me to have to tie you to the chair? Now DON’T MOVE or I’ll cut the lot off!"

More and more ruthless scissor action eventually had my remaining hair no more than an inch and a half long and standing up like a hedgehog, at which stage she finally put the scissors down. I was really hoping that she had finished, as by now there was far more hair on my shoulders and in my lap than on my head, the gown sagging between my knees under the weight of the soaking mass of cut hair. Unfortunately, Doreen didn’t hang around, and soon had the clippers I had brought from next door plugged in and lined up ready for the next phase of her mission of total tonsorial destruction.

Shoving my head right down until the back was almost horizontal, Doreen applied the vibrating machine to the nape of my neck, swiftly moving up the back of my head. Obviously, I couldn’t see what was going on, but judging by the rasping crunching sensation, the clippers were clearly working hard, and every now and then another clump of hair slid down the nylon gown.

Throughout the whole nightmare, I felt I was burning up with embarrassment and was constantly aware of the captive audience of inquisitive old women sitting under the dryers behind me watching with delight at the unfolding spectacle. Doreen now had her hand on top of my head, and was roughly shoving it around as she eased the path of the clippers round my ears and up the side of my head, mowing off everything in their path. My eyes were now welling up with tears of fear and anger â€" fear of what others would think of the result and anger that this evil woman was allowed to do this to a defenceless fourteen-year-old. It was just not fair.

Everything went quiet as Doreen switched off the clippers. I sat there feeling shellshocked with a haircut every bit as short as the time I had misfortune of visiting Mr Harrison a couple of years ago. As you might remember, that was bad enough, but at least it was in a men’s barbers and not in a ladies’ salon whilst dressed in a frock. Surely the humiliation must be over. Surely. But no, with Doreen in charge, she had to have another treat in store, didn’t she?

Wetting my hair down again with the squeezy bottle, the demon ladies’ hairdresser used her comb to smooth my hair down into a side parted slicked short back and sides, before reaching into the drawer beneath the mirror and to my utter horror retrieving a hairnet. She wasted no time in stretching it over my semi bald head, the elastic pressing into my forehead and across my ears. She then let the chair down, whipping the pink towel from around my shoulders, spraying hair clippings everywhere before leading me to the HAIRDRYERS! As I stood up, still dressed in the blue nylon gown, mounds of my hair fell to the ground forming a mountain next to the chair. I was quickly seated under the dryer, the hood was lowered and as Doreen flicked the switch, I was enveloped by a tornado of hot air, blowing over my head and into my face making the gown billow and dispersing the last few bits of cut hair to the floor. The woman under the dryer next to me seemed highly amused by my presence.

"What’s a young lad like you doing in a ladies’ salon, eh?" she cackled. "She’s given you a good scalpin’ mind you, I wish I could get my Kevin to get a decent crop that that. Was your haircut a punishment for misbehaving or what?" I chose to ignore her and kept my head down and my eyes shut.

As I sat there sweating, I opened my eyes to see Doreen with a satisfied look on her face sweeping up the remnants of my hair from around her chair. I may be wrong, but I’m sure she had enjoyed every second of our whole sorry encounter. Before long, convinced that what little hair I had left must be dry by now, I began to struggle to breathe and tried to attract Doreen’s attention to free me from her torture by hot air.

At last, I was out from under the dryer and back in the cutting chair with the hairnet removed, my thoroughly dry hair flat to my head; nothing more than a hint of blond visible on the white shaved back and sides and a few wisps lying down across the top. Finally, before dragging the gown off me, she blasted my head with some perfumed aerosol hairspray, which made me sneeze, and at long last I was free from Doreen’s clutches; I hoped forever.

I finally found myself back out in the refreshing clear air of the street forty minutes after I had first entered the shop.

As I walked through the front door at home, my mum was just on her way upstairs with a basket of fresh ironing.

"Good grief, what’s she done to you? Did you misbehave while you were in her chair?"

So much for sympathy.

In a way, that was the easy part. The worst was to be my image among the ranks of the choir with a virtually bald head, preserved on film for ever. But maybe I got what I deserved. Lesson learned.

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