Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
O n waking the next morning, I’m flooded with shame. After my rendezvous-gone-wrong with Dave, I should have done the sensible thing and reached out to Cat for moral support, but I was too humiliated and broken by the experience to admit to anyone what had happened. Instead, I spent the evening in my suite, sobbing my heart out.
I wince at the fleeting memory of a hotel staff member knocking on my door to check I was OK. Between that, the unintended display in the bar and my endless caterwauling, every employee in this place must know who I am.
Too mortified to show my face at breakfast, I call room service and ask them if they’ll bring some food to my room. Not that I have any appetite, but I know I should try to eat something. They are, of course, very obliging.
I even consider ditching my plans for the day, as I’ve had next to no sleep and I could probably quite successfully audition for a part in The Walking Dead (or a similar post-apocalyptic horror drama series). Last night’s bombshell has really messed with me – to the point that I still can’t bring myself to talk to Cat about it. He’d been cheating on me for a year-and-a-half? How did I not see that? Or not even suspect a thing? I was never comfortable with his friendship with Melissa, but my worries were that he would leave me to go back to her, not cheat on me. And if it’s not Melissa, do I know her?
My breakfast arrives, and contrary to what I thought, I discover that I’m famished; probably due to last night’s dinner consisting of hand cooked crisps and cashew nuts from the minibar. Though at least I didn’t touch a drop of alcohol this time.
Hoping that I’ll feel better after a long hot shower – which seemed to help yesterday – I let the water drench me, willing it to wash away the torment in my mind. However, the impact of Dave’s revelation is the emotional equivalent of drawing all over my body with permanent marker. It will fade but it’ll take more than one shower to scrub it away.
I had convinced myself that I was pretty much over him, but I’m obviously not, especially if I was considering taking him back after everything he’s done. I shiver at the humiliation of thinking he wanted to get back together when it had never even crossed his mind. But at least I now know that. And while my brain may be as scrambled as the eggs on my breakfast plate, the stark light of day is grounding me enough to realise that I need to pick myself up and keep going – even though that’s the last thing I feel like doing right now.
Forcing myself to get ready, I plod to the hairdresser. The hotel doesn’t have an in-house salon, so Sammy from the Spa has kindly arranged a nine a.m. booking at a high-end place on George Street – the one the hotel recommends to all its guests. The plan being that if I’m creating a fresh image for myself, a new hair style is an important part of the package .
On opening the door to Hunter Philips, I’m hit by a gust of warm air and fragrance. I’ve been in nice salons before, but I can see from the real hardwood flooring, single centrepiece chandelier and enormous vases of freshly cut flowers, that this is in a different league. The stylish waiting area welcomes me with expensive-looking, grey-brown fabric sofas and a coffee table piled high with fashion magazines. And in the corner, a Nespresso machine sits regally, surrounded by its army of multi-coloured coffee pods.
Still feeling vulnerable from last night’s events, I feel my ‘designer’ anxiety kicking in; the irrational feeling that I’m not worthy of being in such a high-end place. Dave really has done a masterful job of ruining this experience for me.
I give my name to the young receptionist, who, despite sporting bright blue hair, manages to look like she’s walked off the cover of Vogue. If I tried that, I’d end up looking like I’d had an accident with the toilet cleaner. She invites me to take a seat and I scuttle over to one of the couches,
I’m absently flicking through a magazine (which I’m also using as a shield), while fantasising about Dave catching a nasty STD from the woman he’d been seeing behind my back, when my thoughts are interrupted.
‘Well, hello there, lovely.’
Peering over the pages, I find myself looking at the person who must be my hair stylist for the morning. He’s tall, gorgeous and very flamboyant. I love him the second I clap eyes on him, which instantly lifts my mood.
‘Hi.’ I smile nervously at him.
‘Fabulous to meet you, Emma.’ He gives what looks like a little bow and leads me to a chair where he gestures for me to take a seat in front of the mirror. ‘I’m Cameron. I’m the Executive Stylist Director here, so you’re in very safe hands. What do I have the pleasure of doing for you today? ’
I self-consciously tug at my limp hair and frown. ‘Hair transplant?’
Cameron gives a tinkling laugh. ‘I’m afraid we don’t do that here. I get the impression you’re looking for a big change, though?’
‘Yeah… I am. I want a totally different hairstyle. A new… well, me.’
‘Don’t you worry, lovely, I’ll have you looking like a catwalk model by the time you leave.’
‘That sounds like the next best thing to a hair transplant.’ I give a resounding nod.
‘OK, fabulous .’ He makes a show of inspecting my hair section by section.
It’s been a while since my last haircut, so I’ve got quite a bit of length he can play with. I imagine how I’ll strut out of the door with a huge mane of beautifully styled, golden-blonde tresses, swishing them around in slow motion like those women in the shampoo adverts, while passers-by gape in envy. Yes, that would do nicely.
‘Are you ready, Emma…’ Cameron shocks me out of my daydream. ‘I’m thinking… let’s make the most of that beautiful bone structure in your face. Having so much length isn’t doing you any favours and neither is that flat, straight style. You need a shorter, choppier, stylish cut.’
‘Shorter?’ I wince. ‘I was hoping to keep it long.’
‘No, definitely not, lovely… doesn’t suit you. Now, I see you have a natural wave in your hair that you’re trying to hide. We’re going to make use of that… and I’m thinking fringe to add statement.’
My discomfort turns to disbelief. ‘Wavy short hair… and… a fringe? Erm… Cameron… I’m not sure that’s a good idea. The last time I had a look like that I was seven, and the boys cha sed me around the playground calling me a scarecrow.’
Still wrapped up in his creative visioning, Cameron doesn’t appear to have heard a word I’ve said. ‘Yes, that’s perfect… and some colour to lift. We’ll stick with your natural colour overall but add some lowlights to bring texture and dimension. Mmm… that’s going to be quite stunning. So, are we good to go?’
I blink at him, speechless and terrified.
‘Um… it’s… an interesting option.’ I try to be diplomatic. ‘But I was thinking maybe long with layers and perhaps going blonde.’
Planting his hands on his hips, Cameron appraises me with a look I can only describe as withering and condescending. ‘With the greatest respect, lovely, who is the professional here? With your pale complexion, blonde will wash you out. Layers would improve things slightly on your current style, but do you want to be average, or do you want to be a fricking masterpiece?’
Not one for diplomacy himself then.
‘Erm… well, I guess I’ll… be a masterpiece then.’ It’s clearly futile to argue with him, and I don’t think I could muster the courage or motivation today anyway.
‘Great choice.’ He throws a gown over me and gets to work, while I start saying my prayers. I don’t want to have to turn up at my regular salon tomorrow morning, grovelling, and begging her to fix it for me. I’d end up getting a long lecture on not being fooled by high price tags and pretentious decor.
Once he’s applied the dye to my hair, Cameron wastes no time in adding yet another dimension of discomfort to my experience .
‘Right, lovely, are you ready for the transformation of a lifetime?’
‘I guess so.’ I squirm in my seat.
‘Fantastic. Now, I have a little ritual I do with all my new customers…’
I wonder if he’s going to a spiritual hair dance of some sort.
‘To make sure you get the full effect of your transformation– a sort of “before” and “after” effect – I’m going to do your hair away from the mirrors.’
Is he kidding me? I just want my hair cut and coloured. This isn’t a makeover TV show.
‘Erm… Cameron, I realise this is probably something you do regularly, but it’s not for me. I like to be able to see—’
‘Where’s your sense of adventure, lovely? Good for the soul, this is. It teaches you to trust more and obsess less. Really, you’re getting two for the price of one – therapy and a hair style. You’re welcome. Now, I don’t want you seeing a thing until it’s done, so if nature calls, let me know. There’s a small toilet through the back with no mirror that you can use.’
Well, I guess that’s me told. Not wanting to make a scene, and because I really do want my hair done today, I reluctantly sit back and await my fate.
A couple of hours later, Cameron is ‘oohing and ahhhing’, making the final tweaks before the big reveal. I, on the other hand, have been taking myself through sporadic deep breathing cycles while sitting on my hands to stop me chewing the crap out of my newly done nails. I’ve had no choice but to sit back and let him do his job. And in the process, I’ve told him everything that has gone on in the last few weeks, with the exception of last night’s disaster, which is still too raw. There’s something about hairdressers that makes me more loose-lipped than my mother after a community coffee morning – and I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m not the only person who experiences this curious phenomenon. To say Cameron was interested was the understatement of the century. I’ve never heard the phrase ‘ shut up ’ so many times in my life.
‘Right, lovely, are you ready to see what a masterpiece looks like?’ asks Cameron.
‘OK…’ I put an anxious hand to my stomach.
‘Calm yourself. You’re going to love this.’
He leads me across to a mirror, and on taking in the image before me, my mouth forms a perfect ‘O’. Cameron, true to his word, has performed a near miracle. If it weren’t for seeing my stunned face staring back at me, I’d swear it wasn’t me. My mousey brown hair is now shoulder length, with hints of rich chestnut and mahogany. I have that sexy, tousled, just back from the beach look, and a stylish fringe that frames my face in a way I never knew I could look.
‘ Wowsers! ’
‘I know.’ Cameron admires his handiwork.
‘Cameron, you are nothing short of a genius.’
‘ Right? ’ He holds out his hand for a low five, and I obediently oblige.
‘I mean… I’ve never looked even remotely as good as this.’ I touch my hair with my fingers and a thought pops into my mind. ‘Wait… what if I can’t replicate this myself? What if I do end up looking like a scarecrow because I don’t have the styling skills?’
To my surprise, Cameron looks mortally offended. ‘Did you not just call me a genius? ’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Emma, did you not just call me a genius? ’
‘Yes.’ I realise I’d better shut up.
‘And what does a genius like me do when he cuts your hair?’
‘Erm… I don’t know.’ I feel like a child getting a scolding for forgetting the three-times table.
Cameron sighs theatrically. ‘He does it through balancing creativity with making the most of what he’s got. I told you I was going to make use of your natural wave, and that’s what I’ve done. You’ll have minimal styling time because you had it all already. I’ve simply brought out your natural beauty.’ He then proceeds to tell me how to recreate the look.
‘What, really ? That’s all I need to do?’ I’m hugely impressed by this man’s confidence, self-belief and ability. ‘You’re like the hair stylist equivalent of Van Gogh.’
‘Oh, I like that.’ He seems to bask in the compliment, while I swish my new hair in the mirror to see if I can still pull off the move I was imagining earlier.
While Cameron is seeing me across to the reception desk to pay my bill, I have an idea, which is quite ludicrous, but I decide to follow my instincts. ‘Erm… as a thank you for making me sit on myself – quite literally – and giving me the best hair of my life, how would you like to join me and some friends for Champagne tomorrow evening? Only if you’ve not already got something completely fabulous planned… which I expect you will have.’
He looks thoughtful. ‘You’re right, I do… but I’m sure I could swing by for a glass or two.’
‘Great. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’ I give him the details, pay my extortionate bill – ensuring there’s a generous tip in there too – and head back to the hotel.