As A Pink Flamingo

1982 (17 YEARS OLD)1 month ago

1982 - 17 Years Old

When I was growing up, my mum would always go to bed with toilet paper wrapped around her head, held in place with hair clips. It was to keep her hair nice, or something like that.

I didn’t know if other kid’s mums did this as well.

And you had to be especially careful with asking about things like this. If everybody else’s mums went to bed with toilet paper wrapped around their heads, it was what it was, and everything would be fine.

But if you were the only one, there was a chance that you could inherit a nickname that would follow you around for all eternity.

I didn’t want to end up being called bog roll for the rest of my life, so I kept it to myself.

And while my mum went to extraordinary lengths to make sure that her hair was perfect, she didn’t seem to give a monkey’s about mine.

Until I started to make my own serious serious dosh and could pay for myself, my mum made me go to the barbers at the American airforce base at Upper Heyford.

And while they were skilled at short back and sides and crew cuts for the airmen, what they did to the non-military dependents was quite shocking. Most of the guys at the American high school looked something like one of these:

But when I started to have my my own money (thank you commissary grocery sacking), I could choose my own. And not a barber with a fake Italian accent and gardening tools.

A stylist (he types, drinking a cup of tea with his pinkie elevated.).

And not just any stylist: a gorgeous one named Olivia.

She was about four years older. And she had a boyfriend who drove a Triumph Stag. So while I flirted and made her laugh, I understood that there was little likelihood that she would swap driving through country lanes in her boyfriend’s convertible, hair flapping in the wind, for a croggy on my bicycle.

Despite the fact that it was a rather nifty 10-speed.

My hair was thick (less so now), and unruly (still very much so), but she would work her magic on my hair, and I would leave her salon with a do that would last in its perfection for a day.

Or a few minutes, if it was raining.

I had wanted to add a bit of colour to my hair, which was black at the time. Like a burgundy that would only come through in the light.

Olivia said that was a silly idea. And at that point in my life, I didn’t have the confidence to argue with pretty girls.

Except, of course, with Kate.

So I cheated on Olivia with the girlfriend of an acquaintance who worked in another salon. I explained how I wanted it, and she assured me she could do exactly what I wanted. So I showed up, and sat in the chair for what seem like hours.

And, as I sat in the chair drinking an instant coffee and dreaming of coolness, Soft Cell was playing on the tape deck. It was a hip salon.

Everything was perfect, with the exception of one small snag.

My hair turned out bright fucking pink!

The crime was committed on a Friday, and it wouldn’t be until Monday that I was able to show up to Olivia, hat in hand, asking her to do whatever she bloody-well could.

Despite some initial suppressed giggles, she was nice about it. She wasn’t judgy. Which couldn’t be said of other people in my life:

I passed Gray Fanny, our school’s Deputy head for the girls while I was walking home through the park. She didn’t react beyond her normal disgusted look, only to say matter-of-factly “I assume everything will be rectified come Monday morning.”

Singhy laughed his arse off for about 20 minutes when I gave him the big reveal on his doorstep.

I helped my parent’s American friends, the Schlengens, move, wearing a black woollen hat. Even though it was quite warm that day. But at least I gave all of the Americans a good crazy shit that happened when I was stationed in England story.

And to top it off, I was meant to go to the Town Hall disco with Andy Meigher, because his girlfriend’s best friend, Jill, was going to be there, and, according to him at least, she was crazy about me.

Bollocks.

It was the one time I hoped he was lying.

But I didn’t go. Just in case.

And about noon on Monday, I walked through our school gates to the sight of most of the six form gathered at the panoramic windows, wanting to verify the story Singhy had been spreading all morning.

But, no. Fuck off. Everything was back to normal.

I just hoped the wind wasn’t blowing clumps of twice-bleached, twice coloured hair across the courtyard.