After a rollicking (cracking?) day at Bletchley, I wanted to have a less cerebral Sunday and decided to wander around a few neighbourhoods that operates on a Sunday. I went to the London Bridge area to visit
White Cube to catch the last day of
Tracey Emin's exhibit. I can't believe how generous London is (so many of them free), until I realize that everything I buy here has to be multiplied by 2, essentially. The exhibit was interesting, the space is gorgeous - so much ceiling height to display large bodies of work. I loved watching the people, too. Just, everyday, local residents walking in casually with their grocery bags. I went through the gift shop (because I love to), and pondered who would buy ornaments like
this for their tree. I couldn't really picture anyone real, or at least within my (albeit) small circle of friends and acquaintances. If you're one of them, please let me know what your tree looks like, and if you have
Gilbert & George ornaments on them, too.
After doing yet another lost/walk (walking while semi-lost), I hopped on the bus and got to actually see the remaining poppies in the Tower of London from my window. They were removing it, and I was glad to have a nice view from behind glass way above the crowds. The last time we came to the Tower, I wanted to stab myself because a) I was really jetlagged, b) it was raining and cold, and c) there were about 1000 x more people than I would have liked per square metre.
Some of my coworkers suggested I visit Camden Town, which I imagined to be a lot like the Haight (it was), so I made it over there and started walking towards the horse stable markets, when a young lady asked me if I want to be a hair model. I've never modelled anything (aside from that one time, when I did hand modelling for a magazine I was working for, but that was due to everyone else in the office at the time being male, and they needed a female hand. Don't ask). I don't have much hair to cut, but I do have a patch of green in my hair which may have been taken as a sign of a risk taker? I was really taken aback as to why I was asked. I decided this might be something to write home about - so I said yes. She took me to the salon/academy nearby, and I was penciled in for the next day. The next day, I jokingly told my coworkers that I was going to get a free mohawk ("Just don't do anything too crazy", they wryly observed). I show up at the salon, tell them I'm here for the, here for the, uh, (I can't bring myself to ever say "model", I'm like 50lbs overweight for that), and they show me upstairs, in the waiting area, where the other "models" are at. I've always suspected that the Brits have a slightly different aesthetic when it comes to beauty. Just look at British shows as proof. Prime Suspect had the realest cast ever - where every extra policeman in the background looks like they really are weighed down by all that they've seen, then compare it to, oh, I don't know, Prime Suspect US version, or more recently, Broadchurch. They seem to be more forgiving if you're not textbook pretty, which in the US essentially seems to indicate flawlessness. Perhaps this is why I was asked?
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| UK version - oh how I loved Otley |
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| US version |
*if you noticed me using British spelling all over the place, do note that I'm not intending on putting on airs; my spellchecker (whom I named Basil) is British. You can read them in your head in faux-English accents and annoy yourself if you like. Flavour. Colour. Splendour. Barbour.
The point being, there were all kinds of hair models. I wasn't even in the minority here - there was another Asian girl with an even more daring do (and less hair) than I. She had half of her head shaved, and the other side also shorn but with some elaborate bangs. There was an older lady, who was clearly uncomfortable to be there. Then there were the "real" models : Caucasian, Nordic or Eastern European, with intriguing accents, a pixie-like face, and legs like matchsticks. I was even more confused as to why I was here. I also watched someone who was clearly an artiste (he swore like one, had hand gestures like one, and was teasing the hell out of someone's poor marigold coloured afro). Also, as in real life models (I assume), a lot of time was spent waiting. I brought my knitting, and made some good headway, until a dapper male in his early to mid-30s came bounding up, clapping his hands, and saying "So, let's go in to the other room, models!". So we all gathered up our bags and followed him in. He introduced himself as Ian, and filled us in on what was going on. "Thank you all for coming in! You're all here to be hair models for a group that's here from Italy. Don't worry, these are not students in beauty school - these are mainly salon owners and experienced hair cutters. I and my colleague (points to a tall blonde muscular male) here will do a consult, and then we'll do what we call "Salon Creative", which is salon cut with a twist. Ok, now take a seat, pick a mirror!". We all shuffle to a seat. I get Ian. There's about 7 of us, which makes them 2 short, apparently, so there's last minute upstairs wrangling of some other poor souls off the street. Ian eventually makes his rounds and comes to me, and the first thing he asks is "Who cuts your hair? Where do you get it cut?". I answer that I'm not from here, I'm from San Francisco, and I have a haircutter that I go to regularly there (whom I WILL NOT name because I like being able to see her on a regular basis. She is awesome). She did, however, train in London, I say proudly. Without missing a beat, he says "Ah, yes Sassoon. I can tell by the cut, and the curve here. You don't often see lines like these from people on the street". I'm not sure, but I believe that was a compliment against my hairdresser. I smile politely. Fortunately for me, Ian assesses my haircut as "Amazing, I love this whole look you got there", and does not want to veer away from this. But he thinks it'll be good to add some texture, and maybe trim my bangs? "You know, like how you returned from the pub all drunk and took some scissors at your bangs?". Wait, WAT? My bangs already look like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber. You cannot make Dumberer. With that, he walks away. The other instructor seems really stressed for some reason, and all 9 of us "models" eye each other in the mirrors and exchange smiles and nervous expressions. Then the Italian hairdresser team arrives. None of them look like they are in their teens or 20s, in fact, they all look like a group of tourists that just returned from taking a 0.5 day sightseeing trip. They all look at us nervously, too, until Ian asks them to pick a model. I'm hoping the one that looks like Anne Hathaway dressed like a marionette (srsly, she had rouge on her cheeks and everything) might choose me, since I like that she has a Mary Poppins style carpetbag as her work bag, but Anna H. decides to go with the short haired girl next to me. I get a middle-aged lady, who nods, and smiles at me as if to say "I got this, girl. Doncha worry". Ian takes turns explaining the look we want to achieve, and we all take turns getting shampooed. My person, whose name I don't find out until the end, gave a very generous, relaxing shampoo (I loooove getting my hair washed. Perhaps when my time has come, I can die while being shampooed? It would be such a relaxing way to go, not to mention, clean follicles that can be later used for wigs!), and we wait for Ian, as water drips down my shoulders. By the time my hair pretty much dried, Ian is ready for me, and he starts instructing my person how/where to start. I had to get misted again, but all that time, I got to watch with fascination how Ian approaches hair as if it's sculpture, and almost engineers it structurally ("her hair grows this way, so you have to allow it to be weighed down by this, like so"), and I watch a new style emerge like hedges being trimmed from a particularly thick, curly haired girl.
While we all have such different hairs, different faces, different builds, we all have one thing in common, and that's uneasiness. "It's just hair, it will grow" mumbles the girl next to me, though she spent 5 minutes complaining to Ian earlier that she got a bad cut previously elsewhere, and it really dampened her self-esteem. A blonde girl with very thin hair is looking worried as her Italian trainee looks distractedly at other people while sort of drying her hair with one hand. I'm listening to Italian all over, and feeling somewhat hungry. If there's one body part of mine that is guaranteed a compliment (from haircutters), it's mah hair. Every hairstylist I've ever had raves that my hair is healthy, great, amazing, fun to cut (and said nothing about my personality, my eyes, my thick middle, nothing. These parts are so neglected), but I have a very "meh" relationship with my hair. That girl is right, it's hair, it'll grow. And I've grown it out multiple times so I can chop it off and donate it to
Locks of Love. I've done it 4 times already and it always feels strange to take something that was attached to you an hour ago in an envelope and mail it, but it's very satisfying. If you have hair and have low attachment to it, I highly recommend growing it out and harvesting it for a very good cause.
It's a 3hr cycle of instruction, attempt, judging and adjusting, and then finally, we get to my bangs. Every time Ian comes by, he says things to my person, like "You have to respect this hair. Treat it with respect, and it will respond. If you don't treat it with respect, I will punch you in the chest". The Italian translator translates this, including the vigorous hand-gesture Ian did of attempting to punch my person in her chest. My person laughs and nods. The only exchange between us so far that was more than "Thank you, grazie" and "Prego" was when she asked me "Is there any...pain?".
There wasn't, thankfully. She had a steady hand and was very very careful. I saw that Anna H. was struggling the most out of all the stylists (she seemed very nervous, and kept getting corrected), so I felt like I somewhat dodged a bullet.
Ian managed 5 heads, his partner 4, and all the Italians gathered round to watch when someone was being looked at. People poked and pulled at my green hair. "Bella!" said one, and another one gave me the universal thumbs up. Eventually it came to my bangs, and Ian kept talking while snipping. "I love your hair! Your hair is just, amazing! It's one of those hairs that if it gets in your socks in the morning it'll bother you all day!". Once again, I'm really not sure if this is a compliment or not, until at the very end, he looks at me in the mirror and says solemnly "It was a pleasure and an honour to cut your hair. I'd cut hair like this for free." Well, Ian, you just did, and thank...you?
My person beams at me when I thank her, and when I ask her name, she says "Paola. From Firenze". My favourite Italian city! We smile, hug, and take a blurry selfie which I will not post here.
My coworkers are disappointed that I didn't get a blue mohawk, but manage to hide it well. "It doesn't look that different!". Well, actually, my bangs have never been shorter and my usual stylist will definitely know that I saw someone else (it's crooked on the left side), but eh, it was an experience.
If any Asian person with thick hair wants to get a short bob with Jim Carrey bangs while in Florence, tell Paola I sent you, and give her my best.
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| No Simon Pegg. Sigh. |
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| Just Like Haight |
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| Poppies! |
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| London, you are so photogenic |
