Fox Mange

Lately whenever I have washed my hair in the bath I have had to remove hideous congealed hair-soap creatures (that would not go amiss in a Star Wars movie) from the plughole. My hair seems to be falling out in remarkable and frightening quantities; I could have fashioned a life-size Wookie by this stage. I’m afraid I may be in the beginning stages of early onset male pattern baldness as a result of my proclivity for hair dye.

Gripped by my fear of alopecia (ORIGIN late Middle English : via Latin from Greek alōpekia, literally ‘fox mange,’ from alōpēx ‘fox.’) I headed to the hairdresser with my fox mange. As I am in Wimbledon and not Edinburgh I couldn’t attend my usual haunt, which is just as well as they normally convince me to go blonde or red or cut a fringe. But they are lovely. They use little cue cards that they refer to when I pop in every 6 months or so. Referring to my cue cards Kenneth (who is not a gay – take that stereotypes) would eye my deranged quiff and then query, “Oh, so I see here last time we saw you, you were moving into an unplumbed bus in the country. How’s that going?”

As I was thrust into the scary world of foreign hairdressing I chose a branded chain that rhymes with ‘Pony & Pie.’ Inside ‘Pony & Pie’ I had one of the most relaxing hours of my life. First the divine hair wash and massage, if I weren’t already married I would have proposed to the little blonde girl administering the wash. Then I was whisked off to my cutter and stylist Ko, a diminutive Japanese woman with the most infectious smile. We gabbled on like old school friends, nothing was sacred: London, homesickness, my ticking Tiger mother clock, and her terrible housemates – including the African who monopolized the washing machine:

Ko: And then the machine started making a very sharp sound.

Me: Oh?

Ko: So we call the landlord in and he find a wire. A bra wire stuck in the machine - as big as my head.

Me: Really, I had no idea they got so big. [Which is a lie as I once put one of my old underwires under my chin and my entire face fitted neatly within its domain.]

Ko: Yes, so she say it’s not hers. But my other housemate and I are Japanese, we don’t have bosoms. She had [gestures to chest indicating cartoon sized melons] bosom.

Me: So did she move out?

Ko: Yes she move out soon. But then we get French girl. She eat so much cheese and never flush toilet.

Oh, how we laughed and what friends we were. At the end of the hour I was sad to leave my new mukka but greatly empowered by my bob of curly hair. I still looked like me only better and positively skipped out of ‘Pony & Pie’ smiling like a loon at everyone I passed.

For one hour of my life (although I did pay for the service) I was the most important person in the partnership and Ko was interested in me. Which makes a hell of a change to Eileen who in our 6 week partnership has asked me 2 questions: 1) Do you have a garden in Australia? (No, as I’m South African) and 2) Are the houses like this where you live? (Em, I suppose but I live in a bus).

But blow me down if Eileen didn’t compliment me on my hair when I got back.

(Picture is *Circus people, Duren, 1930. Photograph by August Sander)