Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

A short story by Laura Marney

With the most stylish salon in the most fashionable city in Europe, Sarah and Jean were at the top of their game, acknowledged leaders in the field of physical and mental wellbeing. Situated at the heart of Partick riverside in prime real estate they had the foresight to buy last century, they employed a huge staff of elite beauticians, therapists, fitness gurus, life coaches, chiropractors, nail technicians, dentists and hairdressers. Legally they could have retired years ago at seventy five but with both of them in rude health and making more money than ever, why should they? ‘No,’ they often told clients, ‘taking our foot of the gas is not an option.’ Clients found their old fashioned way of talking cute, and everyone knew their archaic but imminently sensible motto, ‘never let the grass grow under your feet.’
Sarah pushed the joystick and zoomed in on the man sitting in the waiting area. She liked to look at him from here, admiring from afar. He was a salesman, Tam McKee, and he had an appointment. Sarah had seen him every week for the last four weeks. He had begun by flirting with Sarah in a purely business-like manner but over the weeks it had gotten serious. He really fancied her, he told her so.
‘Ah pure fancy you,’ he’d said, ‘so ah do.’
He’d said it more than once.
Sarah suspected that he was falling in love and didn’t like to let the poor boy down. It wasn’t fair to toy with people’s emotions but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth. It seemed so cold. Jean and Sarah didn’t do love. It was the secret of their long partnership and successful business. With plentiful supplies of Hormohorn pills they enjoyed themselves, but were faithful only to the business.
Every week Tam tried to sell Sarah a product and every week she told him she couldn’t make a business decision without Jean’s approval. Could he come back next week to see them both? Every week she booked him in for a time when she knew Jean would be out. It wasn’t fair but she couldn’t help herself.
As he sat patiently waiting, Tam would of course know that there were cameras in all areas of the salon. It was standard practice and helped cut down the compensation claims staff and customers frequently tried to bring against them. What Tam might not know was that from here, in the control room which doubled as their panic room, with a high spec remote x ray facility Sarah would be able to examine what he had under his trousers. As she expected, nip and tuck. Well, she sighed, there weren’t many men over fifty nowadays who hadn’t had everything pulled up a bit. Or women come to that. She was no stranger to reconstruction herself. She and Jean were the sole licence holders in Europe for Natucorrect, a cutting edge procedure; these were the perks of owning an innovative business. Sarah skooshed some perfume up her skirt and prepared to welcome Tam.
Within the salon, staff were required to wear earpieces at all times. This allowed Sarah and Jean to discreetly advise and direct without disturbing the client. It also let them in on every whispered conversation: all the bitching and gossip they could not live without. Sarah now discreetly announced to all section supervisors that she was about to go into conference and was, under no circumstances, to be disturbed for the next two hours. Only very new or very naive supervisors did not understand the euphemism. She was about to speak to reception and ask them to send Tam up when the door flew open.
Jean flounced in and threw herself into a chair.
‘The bastard. George has chucked me,’ she pouted.
‘Go easy Jean, your next hip replacement isn’t scheduled till August.’
‘Did you not hear what I said? He’s chucked me. He’s… Get this, you’ll never believe it: he’s gone back to his wife! He says at his time of life he needs a friend more than a lover. At his time of life! He’s only sixty three for god’s sake!’
Sarah would normally have been more sympathetic but Jean’s return had scuppered her own amorous plans.
‘He’s only a boy,’ agreed Sarah, quickly organising tea while she tried to think what to do with Tam. She didn’t want Jean getting her claws into him, not now she was on the market again. But when she brought Jean her mug she was alarmed to see her peruse the diary.
‘Tam McKee? Who’s he?’
‘Oh just a salesman, I’ll get rid of him and we can have our cuppa and a nice girly bitch about that git George. So, what exactly did he say?’
But it was no use.
‘Oh, I don’t want to go into it, it’s too depressing. Men, they’re all the same. Can’t live with them, not allowed to stab them. Best just to move on. Wait a minute,’ said Jean, returning, like a dog with a bone, to the earlier topic, ‘I’ve seen that name in here before. Tam McKee? Has he not got some new follicle treatment?’
‘Yeah, it’s graft technology but it’s a bit boring,’ said Sarah, before trying a deflection, ‘Want to go out at the week end, just me and you?’
‘Graft technology?’
Jean only heard what she wanted to hear, Sarah thought sadly.
‘We’ll have to get in on that. There’s a graft symposium coming up soon. We’ll need to be up to speed. Can’t let the grass grow. Let’s take a look at him.’
Jean trained the waiting room camera once again on Tam, although this time without such an extreme close up.
‘Mmmm,’ she said, ‘tasty.’
Tam did indeed look tasty, thought Sarah. Though he had been kept waiting more than fifteen minutes his body sat keen and unbeatable. His smile refused to diminish, and his blond hair glistened in the late summer light of the afternoon. He continually ruffled and smoothed down his hair as though nothing could make him happier, the whole time talking to himself.
‘I don’t see an earpiece. Is he using a phone?’ asked Jean.
‘No idea,’ said Sarah, now dispirited. Jean would either offend him with her usual rudeness or charm the pants off him and steal him away. Either way Sarah had lost him.
Jean giggled, ‘maybe he’s got nits.’
‘Probably,’ said Sarah, ‘he could infect the whole salon.’
‘Well we could de-louse him. I’ll de-trouser him any day. Let’s see him in the conference suite.’

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting,’ said Jean, smiling broadly.
‘That’s alright,’ said Tam cheerfully, as if he had all the time in the world. ‘It’s not like I’m here for a haircut. I haven’t had one in two years as it goes.’
Jean shot Sarah a quizzical look. His hair was short, layered and impeccably tidy.
‘What can we do for you then?’
‘Actually, I’m here to change your life. Here’s my card.’
Tam handed over a small white card. It was completely blank at first, and then suddenly the paper flickered into life and spoke to her.
‘Tam McKee,’ it said, revealing a soft-focus picture of him. The picture grinned. ‘Call me anytime.’
Jean giggled with surprise. Sarah didn’t. She had seen it before. It was what had first attracted her to him.
‘Neat eh?’ said the real Tam.
‘Cool,’ said Jean non-commitally, but Sarah could see she was impressed.
‘Go on. Keep it.’
Sarah watched Jean carefully tuck it into her jeans pocket.
‘Jean Collins and Sarah Mills,’ said Sarah quickly, hoping he wouldn’t let on that they’d already met.
Tam seemed to understand and gave each a polite nod, for which she was grateful.
‘So what can we do for you Mr McKee?’ said Jean in her I-haven’t-got-time- to-stand-around-flirting-with-you voice.
Tam squared his shoulders and launched into his formal presentation. Despite herself, Sarah was keen to see this. Every week he had come, she had always managed to dissuade him from making the presentation, preferring instead their intimate chats. As there was no chance of that today, she might as well see what he was selling.
‘I’m here on behalf of Biocell Technologies,’ he began. ‘Don’t worry, I doubt you’ll have heard of us. We’re a small, exclusive company…’
‘I have actually,’ said Jean interrupting him, ‘you’re speaking at the grafting symposium, aren’t you? I saw your name on the programme.’
‘Yes, yes I am, how amazingly observant of you! Well,’ he said, starting again into sales mode, ‘I’m here to offer you the opportunity of being one of the first salons to completely change the way customers have their hair styled. Let me demonstrate.’ Tam now pulled out of his pocket a small sheet of paper which he carefully unfolded until it was the size of an A3 sheet.
‘For thousands of years, it has been mankind’s custom to style our hair with scissors. No longer. It is my pleasure to present to you,’ he paused, watching and waiting for maximum effect, ‘the new Biocell E-Z 2-PAY.’
The A3 sheet became a movie screen which burst into colour and celebration, culminating in a short video of handsome men and beautiful girls prancing about their lives with fabulous hair. In each shot the model’s hair morphed from one minute to the next, from long and blonde to neck length brunette to black dreadlocks to auburn curls.
‘How does it work I hear you ask,’ said Tam.
‘It’s a wig’ said Jean.
Tam clicked his fingers. If he was annoyed, he didn’t show it.
‘It’s not a wig or a weave or extensions.’
‘Well it must be some kind of graft.’
‘Biocell E-Z 2-PAY is the ultimate in non surgical graft technology.’
‘Non surgical? Then it’s got to be a wig!’
Tam smiled, a knowing, rather smug smile, ‘You think?’
‘Well what is it then? said Jean, a hard edge creeping into her voice. She did not like to be teased, especially by salesmen. ‘Is it superglued to your heid?’
‘Superglued to your heeyed,’ scoffed Tam, shaking his head and smiling.
Sarah noticed that he pronounced the word ‘heid’ with a strange accent, giving it two syllables.
‘As we all know multi-resistant bacteria has become a huge problem. Surgery is no longer viable. What I’m talking about here is DNA fusion. The graft is instantaneous and permanent, that is until the DNA code is changed again. Biocell E-Z 2-PAY is the ultimate in lifestyle accessories. Get it?’ smiled Tam, ‘Easy toupee and easy to pay…’
‘Uh huh,’ said Jean, ‘get on with it.’
Tam pressed on.
‘With Biocell E-Z 2-PAY there’s no more back breaking work for the hairdresser: just think girls, no more leaning over sinks washing clients’ dirty hair. No more nicking your fingers with sharp scissors, no more standing for hours on end with your varicose veins throbbing. With Biocell E-Z 2-PAY there’s no more…’
‘Yeah, we get it,’ said Jean, ‘Biocell E-Z 2-PAY. It’s a crap name.’
‘Not a problem. We can change it.’ said Tam quickly.
‘Hmmm,’ said Jean.
Sarah knew that hmmm. That hmmm meant Jean was considering buying it. If it did all he said it did, Jean would want it and she’d pay a lot for exclusive rights.
‘Take out the hard work and replace it with technology,’ said Tam returning to his spiel. ‘Have your new hairstyle grafted on in seconds while you wait. And why restrict yourself with hair that merely looks good? Why not upgrade to our fibre-optic wireless range, where style comes fully integrated with email, internet access and the newest in hands-free digital technology? Want to make a call? Just rub your head and within seconds you’re chatting to your friends without the worry of losing your phone or personal communicator. Why? Because everything’s upstairs.’
Tam pointed to his hairstyle.
‘On your heeyed.’
There it was again, the strange pronunciation.
‘Why us?’ said Jean.
‘Good question. Without wanting to be obsequious, it’s well known that you two are style innovators.’
Jean nodded and received the compliment with good grace.
‘You know a good business opportunity when you see it. The Biocell E-Z 2-PAY, or,’ he quickly added, ‘whatever we end up calling it, represents genuine cost-saving efficiency. This doesn’t require powering other than the energy generated by your own body heat, which means smaller energy bills and greater savings. There’s no fuss with the mess and expense of chemical hair treatments like dyes and perms. Now with a simple painless injection you can choose what you like, when you like, and all without the slightest loss of style or dignity.’
With an expert bow and flourish, Tam tapped up a vein in his arm and injected himself with a small amount of lurid purple liquid. Before he had even removed the needle from his arm his beautiful soft blond hair which Sarah had dreamt of touching was falling in hunks to the floor. As it fell dark ringlet curls were sprouting from his head like time lapse photography. With his new dark hair, Sarah thought Tam looked like Heathcliffe, only more handsome.
‘Perhaps you’re worried that the advances we’ve made in follicle cell engineering will take the skill out of your profession, but please, allow me to allay your fears. The procedures involved in installing the EZ…, er, the product, are precisely those developed by the very best stylists. Hair styling is more than just cutting hair I hear you say. It’s about listening to what the client wants and understanding what the client needs. It’s about your artistry, your style and fashion sense. I wouldn’t presume to tell you your business. Hairstyling, as it goes, is too serious a business for a computer nerd like me. With your agreement, Miss Collins, Miss Mills, I’m willing to train you and your staff to become fully conversant with fitting procedures. The future is ours.’
But Sarah wasn’t listening. Miss Collins was named before Miss Mills. Tam had spent the whole time, making eye contact, making eyes, at Jean.
‘Hold it a minute,’ said Jean, ‘Is it…’
‘Safe? One hundred percent, Jean.’
Oh, Jean was it now?
‘Not only has it every safety mark going, it’s also,’ Tam paused, ‘being tested by the military. I shouldn’t really be telling you this, but the news is about to break any day now. You can understand of course, the potential is immense.’
‘Why here then? Why Glasgow and not somewhere more established?’
‘Have you read any Rumsfeld? He was a great political philosopher. Wonderful stuff. He had this idea about knowns and unknowns. Forget Milan, forget Paris, London, New York and Tokyo, these places are so over. Everyone knows everything there is to know about them. But Glasgow? Glasgow’s an unknown unknown. There are things here we don’t know we don’t know. You see? Glasgow’s the place where things have a chance of beginning’
He pointed to his sheet once again. In place of the immaculately nappered models there appeared an array of statistics and charts, all endlessly repeating the conclusion that Glasgow was indeed the centre of things.
‘Remember the tanning-salon revolution? That started here. Back in the turn of the century, Glasgow pioneered high street tanning technology, making it cheap and easy to use. Timorous Beastie started here, now look at them. They’re right up there with IKEA. Coffee tables, bedside cabinets, you name it, they do it.’
‘Tam, can we offer you a cuppa?’ said Jean kindly.
‘Cheers Jean,’ said Tam rubbing his hands in anticipation, not of the tea, but of securing a big fat contract.
This was a bad sign, thought Sarah. Jean was using the tea as a diversion. She’d catch Sarah alone and get her to agree to sign up. By the time the ink was dry, Tam would have forgotten he ever fancied her. But how could she say no?
Sarah knew that Jean was expecting her in the kitchen, but she stayed with Tam. It put off having to agree to anything.
‘That was a very good pitch Tam,’ she said.
‘Eh? Yeah, cheers mate.’
Tam was preoccupied. Probably thinking about his lucrative contract, or worse, thinking about getting off with Jean. But there was something else.
‘How’s your heid?’ Asked Sarah slyly.
‘Sorry?’
‘Your head.’
‘Oh, yeah, right, me ‘ead,’ he replied in a strong London accent.
That was it. She had found what he had tried to hide.
‘You’re not from Glasgow are you Tam?’
‘Er, yes, I mean aye, I mean… You won’t tell her, will you?’ He said, pointing his head towards the kitchen door where Jean was still dunking his tea bag. His lovely dark curls bobbed as he turned back to Sarah. ‘Jean probably won’t like me if she finds out I’m not a real Glaswegian.’
Sarah marvelled that he had kept it up for so long. Every week for at least an hour and a half he had kept up the pretence of a trendy Glaswegian accent. He must have taken those fashionable elocution classes. So what if he was only a Londoner? She wouldn’t have cared; she would have loved him despite it. But he had lied to her. Because Jean asked the questions and was the bolshy one, he assumed Jean was the senior partner, the decision maker, and he had dropped Sarah like a scone.
‘And you’re not called Tam either are you?’
‘Actually’ he said bashfully, ‘it’s Tommy, but I prefer Tam. Promise you won’t say anything?’
None too subtly, Jean was standing at the kitchen door gesticulating to Sarah.
‘Psst!’
‘Excuse me a second would you Tommy?’ said Sarah making her way towards Jean.
‘Well,’ said Jean, ‘What do you think? Are we in? Please Sadie,’ she said employing the pet name she only used when she wanted something badly enough. ‘I think this is a goer for us.’
Sarah thought about it. It was true that technology had been their friend. It had made them rich and successful; it had brought inventors and innovators like Tam to their door. If they took this product it would change their way of working, change their lives, but they had never been afraid of change. Technology would keep moving forward but catching a man would never change. It would always be frustrating.
Sarah was tired of man-catching, she was 83 after all. Maybe it was time to lay off the Hormohorn tablets, take a chill pill instead, take her foot off the gas.
‘Okay Jean,’ she said smiling, ‘we’re in.’

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