Hairdressers...

I have known!  The memory came about by a comment from Frances about hairdressers visiting the house.  This was a different set-up, I visited her house.  She was a social worker and a part time hairdresser.  Her home reflected her off the wall taste.  In those days I used to have highlights to hide the grey... if only?  She worked her magic so much so I stepped out with hair looking a more natural colour than my long lost colourful tresses.  The wonder of those visits is still with me: my eyes feasted on the treasures, newly acquired since my last visit.  The place was stuffed full of her artwork, pottery and so much, much more.  The wall colours were constantly changing. The garden a riot of overblown flowers, the paths knee deep with their exuberant spread.  Your nose assailed with perfume, your ears deafened by the buzz of contented bees.  That was in the summer.  In the winter a different story: take it from me it wasn’t a whole load of fun to kneel on bare boards over a bath and have your hair washed in the perishing cold.  Turban wrapped in a damp threadbare towel you trogged down the rickerty-rackerty stairs. In the house she always wore a hat, and boy could she talk.  There was always some tale of the latest boyfriend and how he had taken her to the cleaners, in fact come to think of it, the cleaners would have had a field day in there.  As I pressed the huge amount of money she required into her hand, I staggered out with my head ringing.  I have always hoped one day to find a hairdresser for me to tell my problems to!  To this day I never have, is it my fault I idly wonder?