The Chop

‘’Scuse
me, darling,’ he said, ‘I know you’s gonna think I’m a crazy- but wow, your
hair!’

I
turned to see a slight European man with olive skin, a lop-sided smile, and stubble
like a pro headed towards me.

‘I’m
sorry, I don’t mean a interrupt,’ he continued. ‘I’m a hairdresser for a Toni
& Guy and I need model for my exam,’ he said. ‘You wanna a haircut? You
wanna let me cut your hair?’

Now,
guys. You know me. I’m all universe and
destiny and free is better, and it was already weird that I’d just bumped into
an old friend on Oxford Street. I’m still new enough to town that I don’t
simply see people I adore as I’m
walking to the bus stop, and London is far too big for coincidence. I’d
obviously been slowed down for a reason because: science.

I’d
been running late. I normally go to a different stop but I was headed to a networking
event (LOLZ) and so’d taken a slightly varied route. I looked up as I was zip-zagging
around dawdling tourists to lock eyes with a fella who smiled, as if he knew
we’d meet. ‘Laura!’ I cried out his name in return, and we hugged like bears. 

That’s
the only reason I’d stopped- to do the manic, bullet-pointed catch-up that limited
time and too many 6 p.m. workers barging home for their tea means is part
yell-y, part over-excitement. I was annoyed that we were interrupted. Until I realised
it was for a compliment.

‘Let
me take off your hat,’ the European said. I didn’t protest, and my companion
looked on wide-eyed as my accessories were manhandled by this stranger. ‘Yes,’
he said. ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ He reached out to touch my hair. ‘It’s thick, it’s
luscious, it’s GINGER!’ My friend laughed at the perceived insult, but calling
me a ginge was the best compliment, second only to saying wow! You are like *actually* Joan Holloway! Because yes, I recently
took the plunge and became a redhead.

(Okay
fine. That’s a bit of a lie. I spent weeks agonising on Facebook as to whether
I was brave enough to Mad Men it up, and then this girl called my bluff and
gifted me two boxes of hair dye for my birthday which basically left me no
choice. Je ne regrette rein.)

‘Will
you do it?’ he said. ‘Will you let me do a box bob for you?’

I
looked at my friend for guidance. He shrugged. I rolled my shoulders and
glanced at my tattoo. ‘Sure.’ I said.

‘Oh
THANK YOU! You wonderful woman!’ The European clapped his hands gaily and
pulled out his phone. ‘Tomorrow at 3 p.m., it’s okay?’ he said. ‘Give me your
number.’

‘Where
are you from?’ I asked, as he punched in the digits I gave him. Italy, he told
me.

‘Va bene,’ I replied. ‘Fammi uno squillo.’ Call
me. I saved his number to my phone.

‘I put you as “Laura Box Bob”’ he said. ‘A
domani!’

He sauntered off into the crowds and as I put
my hat back on I said to my friend, ‘What’s a box bob?’

‘No idea,’ he said.

I woke up nervous the next day. I remembered
The European saying something about how the first box bob he did he failed on. Something about the woman being picky! Wouldn’t let me frame her face! I
wondered if I should cancel, if accepting a free haircut off of an Italian man
who accosted me on the streets on London was like accepting a taxi ride from
Delhi airport off a man who just want to
show you my cousin’s shop! You’ll like very much! You know?

My phone bleeped. Remember me at 3 p.m.! It said. Lately, I’ve been trying very hard
to be the girl that does what she says she’s gonna do. I think that’s the
ultimate sign of self-respect: follow through on your promises, or be brave
enough to say no in the first place. So I text him back: Of course! See you later x

I wondered if it was a mistake.

When I got to the salon he was hard at work in
amongst all the other students apparently under examination too. He was
chopping and musing and framing and to be honest, looked in a bit of a shitty
mood.

‘I don’t think he passed me,’ he said as he
waved goodbye to his previous client and sat me down in his chair. ‘If you pass
they put in the book, and my book is empty.’ He gestured to the notebook on the
table in front of me. Empty.

I don’t think I need explain any further, do
I? It was a mistake. A very short, very severe, mistake.  

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