Today I went in for my first hair cut since arriving back in Melbourne. I think Frank was excited. Frank is my Mum’s hairdresser and I usually have him cut my hair during my trips back home each Christmas. I don’t think it is an appointment he has relished as he is always trying to follow someone else’s style without really getting to make it his own. There have been a few times he has cut my hair amazingly only for us both to know that the next hairdresser who touches it will not be able to replicate his masterpiece. Slightly bitter sweet.
But Frank’s luck has now changed. I here for good. He has picked up a new client with an abundance of hair for him to chop and chop and chop at to his heart’s delight. He is over the moon. That might be a slight exaggeration. As a hairdresser, Frank is in a class of his own.
The last hairdresser Mum and I shared was Darren. I miss Darren enormously. He had an amazing skill which always made my hair look fantastic and not the massive wave of body it actually is. He even managed to successfully tackle Mum’s hair which is thicker, wavier and has more body in one strand than my full head of hair. Once again, maybe a slight exaggeration.
However, Darren was gay. He was gorgeously gay. Not flamboyant but stylish, sophisticated and “why isn’t he straight” good looking. He also understood thick hair. Did he ever cower at the challenge of “just thin it” often thrown at him? No he did not. He would pull out his scissors and snip snip snip snip it all away. He was fantastic. But I moved to Sydney and Mum moved on. To Frank.
Mum introduced me to Frank after listening to me groan about trying to find a decent hairdresser a few years ago. We made an appointment and I trotted up ready to meet Frank and see whether he was the genius my Mum believed him to be. I sat waiting for Darren’s twin to walk up. Remember Darren. Gorgeously gay brimming with personality Darren. Well … Frank is no Darren.
I looked up as a short, well toned man with a greasy, permed do strolled up. He was wearing faded jeans and a black AC DC tshirt. I don’t actually remember what he was wearing. However, faded jeans and an AC DC tshirt is his uniform of choice so I am probably spot on. He probably said, “Hi. I’m Frank. Come this way.” After dressing me in the black robe, he would have sat me down and proceeded to run his fingers through my hair while wondering out loud what I wanted done. He then said, “Oh … your Wendi’s daughter. Your hair’s thick.” He’s not a man of many words, our Frank.
Meanwhile, I’m thinking what cruel joke is my mother pulling. There’s a roadie sitting behind me about to attack my hair with a pair of scissors. Are you kidding me??? I could only stare at him.
However, Frank, the roadie, is a fantastic hairdresser. I love the way he cuts my hair. I am even becoming fond of his unique look. I don’t understand it nor do I appreciate it. Usually hairdressers have lovely clean hair. Darren often had the “I just rolled out of bed” look but that worked well for reasons described above. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to Frank’s hair.
The other thing I love about Frank is that he doesn’t talk much. I don’t enjoy lengthy chin wags while getting my hair done. He doesn’t even talk to other people. He just cuts.
However, when he does say something, it’s a zinger. Today’s memorable quote: “You look like your sister with short hair.” I’m less upset than she is. Mainly because I look like my mother’s younger twin sister. Therefore … my sister looks like Mum!