Authors: Kirsty Greenwood
“
Did you pay for it?
”
“
Yes, of course! I did
n’t want to cause a scene and -
”
“
You need to go back and ask them to fix it!
”
She's right. That's what any assertive, independent, grown up woman would do.
But...
“
I can't,
”
I sigh, noticing the approaching bus.
“
It’s completely unfixable anyway. It’s too short to cut again without me looking like a fatter, more ginger Annie Lennox, and any more hair dye and it’ll probably, I don’t know, explode from all the toxic chemicals. Besides, I never want to go there again. They were laughing at me!
”
“
Were they heck,
”
she soothes.
“
You should stand up for yourself. You
should
tell the truth.
”
“
I don’t want to be rude, Meg. It would have been completely bad manners. Hang on, I’m just getting on the bus…
Fallowfield please.
”
I hand over my fare and find a seat at the back, so no one can sit behind me and take mobile phone pictures of my barnet and spread them viciously around the internet.
“
Okay. I’m here again,
”
I say once I’ve taken my seat.
“
Look. Olly’s
not marrying your hair
do, he's marrying you,
”
she says.
“
Don’t stress, it’ll bring you out in spots. We’ll sort it.
”
“
Yeah…
I suppose so. It’s just, I really wanted to look nice.
”
“
You will! You’ll look perfect, Natty. And I’ll be really, really jealous.
”
That’s true. Meg has wanted a wedding day ever since she saw footage of Princess Diana’s nuptials when we were fifteen. The desire to be a bride has upped to magnificent proportions since the wedding of Wills and Kate, and finding her very own prince (a footb
aller will also do apparently, a
s will an investment banker, or an heir or some kind of Greek shipping magnate) is now a frequent topic of conversation.
“
Listen, I’ve got to go,
”
she says.
“
I’ve got spinning in ten minutes and I’ve not done my make-up yet.
”
Meg’s gym is one of those shiny posh ones, full of
Hollyoaks
cast members and people who wear luminous leotards in a non-ironic way.
“
Don’t work too hard, will you?
”
I grin. We both know that Meg doing anything other than look pretty at the gym is about as likely as me ever setting foot inside the gym.
“
Of course not. Oooh, and don’t forget the pub tomorrow night. I’ve got tickets for that hypnotist.
”
Ah, the hypnotist. Meg got super excited when she discovered that a real live hypnotist was coming to town. She’s been meaning to visit one ever since she read in a Sunday supplement about some woman who was hypnotised into believing she’d had gastric band surgery and losing three stone in as many months. She was all set to get an appointment when she discovered that the hypnosis cost five hundred quid a session. Now she reckons that if she asks nicely, this pub hypnotist will give her a session f
or free. I can’t see it myself
…
but am looking forward to seeing her try.
“
Yup, I’ll see you there at around half six-ish.
”
“
Brill. Gotta go. And don’t worry, your wedding will be just perfect.
”
“
Honestly?
”
“
Honestly. Now bugger off, I have my own husband to find.
”
“
Germain
e
Greer would be proud.
”
“
Who?
”
We both laugh because Meg has a Masters degree in Gender, Sexuality and Culture studies. You wouldn’t think it to look at her but she’s startlingly bright.
“
Bye.
”
“
Toodle pip.
”
I hang up, and make an executive decision not to get so worked up. Meg’s right. It
is
only a hairdo. There’s always a little disaster before a wedding, it’s tradition. This is just my little disaster.
TEXT FROM: OLLY CHATTERLEY
Sweetness, did you manage to pick up my dry cleaning? Can't wait to cu later.
REPLY TO: OLLY CHATTERLEY
Of course. Love you lots.
I’m not a wimp. At least, I never used to be. Honestly. As a kid I was feisty and assured, forever bossing around my little sister, Dionne, standing up for student council (which basically involved making decisions on vital issues such as themes for the school disco and protesting about the teachers’ ban on friendship bracelets), and pretty much not giving a shit. Sometimes I think it wouldn’t have been half as bad, had my parents gotten it together enough to get divorced. Their petty irritations with each other had turned into full scale, noisy rows that continued well into the night. As they screamed, and cried and chucked plates at each other, I’d creep into Dionne’s bedroom and sing her New Kids on the Block songs as loudly as possible, just to drown out the racket. It took ten years for my father to decide he’d had enough and he eventually left last year for a life of solitude and self-discovery in India. But those ten years took the fight out of me.
While Dionne acted out by drinking vodka
/cider/raspberry-
ade cocktails in the park, failing all her exams and becoming a loud-mouthed attention demander, I went the other way. I kind of got
quiet and undemanding, t
rying my best to keep my parents happy so that they wouldn’t argue and studiously avoiding any situation that may end in a conflict. After ten years it’s become a pretty tough habit to break. Don’t get me wrong, my parents didn’t ‘fuck me up’
.
I just learned that a quiet life equals an easy one. It makes sense that way.
I’ve barely stepped through the front porch when Mum calls my name from the kitchen. I’ve been living with mum for about twelve months now. When my dad upped and left for India last year
, M
um had this horrible nervous breakdown. I deferred (indefinitely) on my course in catering, left my flat share with Meg in Chorlton and came back to my childhood home so that I could look after her.
It’s not so bad, really; outside the city centre, but still close enough to get to Chutney's Deli in Piccadilly where I work as a counter assistant. Of course, I miss living with Meg. The silliness and late nights and…
well…
the freedom, I suppose. But sticking by your family is much more important than playing house with your best mate. And my family needs me. Mum needs me. That’s why, after we’re married, Olly and I are going to move into the flat above the corner shop down the road, so that we’re never too far away. It’s huge, and has brand new wooden floors and Mum managed to convince Irene, the shopkeeper and landlord, to knock fifty pounds a month off the rent. It also means that the whole family will be within a street or so of each other because we’ll be living next door to my sister, Dionne. The sister I can now
hear shouting me in along with M
um.
“
Natalie! Get a
move on, we've got a surprise!
”
I startle. A surprise? Oooh. Maybe they’ve ironed my clothes for this week, or moved Dionne’s gym equipment out of my bedroom. Let’s face it, a cup of tea not made by me would have me flailing in shock.
I push open the door, and there they are. My family. Beaming proudly and holding up the most horrendous looking piece of clothing I have ever seen in my life.
Ever.
“
Surprise!
”
they yell in clearly rehearsed unison.
“
We got you a wedding dress!
”
And then they catch sight of my hair and their expressions of joy melt into ones of shock.
“
What
the fuck happened to your head?
”
says Dionne, dashing over to inspect it.
I reach up to touch the pudding bowl haircut. See? I was right. It really is that bad.
I grimace.
“
I asked for caramel highlights and a layered trim.
This
is what happened
.
”
“
Shit…
”
she whispers.
“
Why would someone do that to you? Have you pissed anyone off recently? Any gangsters? Is it, like, an act of revenge?
”
I tut.
Apparently Dionne’s new boyfriend, Bull, has close associates within the Manchester gangland scene. Since they've been dating she's become a bit obsessed by gangster culture, reading all the Godfather books in a week and watching TV shows that feature Ross Kemp scuttling around in different countries with only a camera man and a nervous facial expression for company.
She peers around furtively, as if at any moment a gangster may pop out from behind mum’s brand new fridge and deliver the same horrid fate to her long blonde hair extensions.
I wonder about the information she's getting if she thinks that the mafia retribution involves giving someone an unfortunate haircut.
“
It was H
air Hackers in the town centre,
”
I answer.
“
Hair Hackers?
”
Dionne repeats.
“
As in hackers of hair? Ehm, I think the clue might ha
ve like, been in the name, Sis.
”
With this she attempts (and fails) to cover a gri
n, before picking up the dress M
um dropped in shock.
Mum hurries over and peers with narrowed eyes, carefully checking my head from every angle. I feel a frisson of nerves. Mum’s a Maths teacher in a secondary school and as such I often get the feeling that she’s about to grade me below average or send me to a headmaster for punishment.
“
Well, I think I
like it,
”
she eventually declares.
“
You look exactly like Tracy. May she rest in peace.
”
Tracy was our childhood tabby cat. On hearing Mum’s observation Dionne snorts loudly, only this time, she doesn't even attempt to cover it.
God.
Maybe I could get a wig.
“
Anyway,
”
M
um continues briskly.
“
You've ruined your surprise now. Go on. Take a look.
”
Dionne is holding up the dress in front of herself. It's got a corseted top covered in silver sequins and diamante and a huge, puffed skirt held up with reams of stiff netting.
“
Is this for the hen night?
”
I ask, stroking the satiny material. Better than the slutty Moulin Rouge outfits Dionne initially suggested. This isn’t so bad. I can wear this. I can have a laugh like
the rest of them. The second rule
of getting married: Everybody looks like a chump on their hen night.
“
No, you daft git
,
”
says M
um.
“
It's a wedding dress.
For your wedding
.
”
She rolls her eyes at Dionne.
Whaaaaat?
I look hard at Dionne and wait for her to burst into giggles, unable to hold in the joke any longer.
She doesn't. She just sighs lovingly at the dress before bestowing it upon me like a midwife with a new born baby.
“
We were thinking you could wear a muff and all. And maybe a feathery shrug.
”
Feathery shrug? And what the pickle is a muff?
“
What’s a muff?
”
“
You know. One of those furry mitten things you use to keep your hands warm. They’re all the rage at winter weddings.
”
A furry mitten thing? Why on earth would my hands be cold at my own wedding? I get a vision of the entire congregation bundled up in colourful scarves and woolly hats. Olly in an expensive, tailor made balaclava. Dove grey to match his morning suit.
I pull a face of distress.