So...
my prison-beak style escape from the Alcatraz that is Harrods is yet to happen. But for some reason – I don't really mind. Something seems to have clicked over in my head; I have harnessed my chi and don't let the bad stuff in anymore. And really – the salon is a lot better than some of the other day jobs I've worked.
I've dressed as a Kinder surprise egg and been beaten up by children at a race course, I've thrown yo yo's at people in mosh pits, I've sold mobile phones to people who do not need them, I've hunted down tax evaders for the government, I've helped to run the worst youth hostel in the EU, I've sold popcorn to celebrities at Cirque Du Soleil, I've wrapped presents in my Auntie's gift shop and I've nannied for the most spoilt children on the planet.
Hey kids! Look what a degree in musical theatre can do for you!!!
Life at the Urban Retreat aint all that bad and it seems that I've been there long enough to now have what I can call "my clients." The weird, eccentric and slightly "left of centre" people who love me because I make all of their ridiculous requests, an even more ridiculous reality.
Stellios – mid 40's, interior designer. Comes in every Monday for his pedicure, every other Wednesday for his back wax and every third Friday for his hair to be tinted and cut. These appointments are booked for the rest of his natural life. He is a creature of habit and does not like change. When he comes in I make sure he has his fresh carrot juice as sits down and only when he has finished drinking it will he be served his porridge. Do not think of serving it at anything less than boiling point. Do not ask him his surname – he will not tell you. Do not ask for his mobile number – he thinks they are evil. Do not think he will pay on his card – to him credit cards are satanic. If there, for any reason, needs to be a change in this routine, he needs to know 48 hours in advance to emotionally prepare himself. Stellios – the man with no surname, always dressed in Prada. I love him.
Rula - Mid 30's, Jewellery Designer, French. Highly strung. Flips out if someone breathes in the wrong direction. Will ONLY see Davy for her cut and Sacha for her colour. If I sit her down and convince her, she might see Paco or Nikki, but will only speak to me about it. I make sure she has her diet coke, no lemon, no ice ready for her when she comes in and there is always an eyebrow specialist ready to give her an eyebrow shape should she decide she will DIE if she doesn't get one NOW. But as she leaves she gives me a hug… tells me she loves me and wanders what she would do without me. Quite frankly… I don't know.
Mrs. Cassar – about 100 years old. Non – specific eastern European. Cannot talk, can only yell… and seems to think the world is out to get her. "DAWN WILL NOT JUST DRY MY HAIR TODAY YES , SHE WILL CUT AND DRY YES, SHE WILL CUT THEN DRY NOT JUST DRY YES." After 20 years of coming to the salon every single Thursday afternoon at 12:30, Mrs. Cassar can't quite understand that no matter what Dawn does, it will always take 45mins and cost the national debt of Uganda. She often says to me "I LIKE YOU YES, YOU DO GOOD WORK YES, IF I HAD EVER HAD TO HAVE A JOB YES, I WOULD BE LIKE YOU YES. I take that as a compliment.
Mrs. Bettleheim. – About 200 years old – 3ft 4" and hunched over like Quasimodo. I have never actually seen her face. My reception desk is so high that when she checks in all I see is a cane smacking onto the glass and hear a Munchkin like voice say "Bettleheim – Robert – thank you" and off she goes….
Mrs. Nemeth – early 70's – 4ft 2" (a giant compared to Mrs. Bettleheim) comes in every fortnight for Robert to do her wigs. She carries three large wig bags with her and, due to a hip replacement, waddles through the salon talking the ear off everyone. Always orders two cappuccinos and a piece of carrot cake with two forks so she and Robert can shoot the breeze while he attempts to make her rugs look like real hair. She is sweeter than everyone's Nanna put together and is an oasis of lovely amidst the ocean of Euro trash that comes through our doors.
Mrs. Scott-Brown. NEVER EVER EVER CALL HER BY HER FIRST NAME. She will actually set you on fire with her eyes. But, if you keep on her good side, she's quite a pussy cat… or is that lion… through all the bright orange curly hair extensions it's hard to tell where the cat ends and the fifty something woman begins. She's had enough face lifts to make David Guest proud and is running the impossible race against age. Her tiny frame actually trembles at times and she seems quite terrified by her life or perhaps by the reflection in the mirror. But when Flavien runs his fingers through her hair – all the worries seem to melt away.
Marie Louise – another one with no surname. I have no idea how old she is because she has had so much plastic surgery she can only be half human. French and the size of a semi-trailer she comes in three times a week for endomology (a crazily expensive cellulite treatment.) With her bleached blonde hair, bright pink lipstick and blue eye shadow pasted all over her face I often say to her "Marie Louise, you look so lovely today in your leopard print leggings… you are so naturally beautiful I don't know why you need us." She sighs and looks at me over her Dior glasses. "I spend so much money coming here three times a week… and look at me! I am still fat!" And with that… she takes another bite out of her cream pie, gets in the cab and goes home… around the corner.
I could spend all day writing about my wonderful clients at the Urban Retreat – there is enough to fill a book, and one day I will. But the people who really make it all worthwhile, all the screaming, insulting clients, all the long days and the Harrods bullshit…. Are the staff. We are the worlds largest salon and in some ways, a little micro world of our own. We all laugh at this life together, because if we didn't, there'd be a mass Waco style suicide on the fifth floor of Harrods.
There's my reception posse – a gang of mostly girls ( and two guys) who are a never ending stream of advice on love, men, fashion, sex, dating, restaurants, bars, clubbing, celebrity gossip and diet tips. They put up with my melodrama of a life and don't tell me to shut up when I quote Oprah's thought for the day at them… well not right away anyway.
The beauty therapists are always on hand to help you out with an emergency wax, tan, facial, body scrub, back rub or eyebrow tint should the need arise and will always listen to the woes and worries of the day. Just don't mess up their bookings… they will pack hunt you down and eat you for breakfast while your heart is still beating.
The make up artists are magicians who somehow manage to make me look human after working fourteen consecutive days and staying out all night in a gay bar in Soho because John wanted to go dancing. With a flick of a brush, they take me from "night of the living dead" to "night of a thousand dances" and think nothing of it. I don't know how I lived before I met them.
But... If I am being honest… of everyone… the hair stylists are my favourite. If we were in high school they would be the cool gang that everyone wanted to be. They are the beautiful ones who are just so frickin' cool…
Top Dog is Paco – Senior Art Director of the Salon – Spanish. He calls me "Carrinitos" - which in Spanish means little cuddles. Mid 40's (although he seems to defy the aging process completely) his boyfriend is the HOTTEST man in the universe. He wears knee high Prada boots, tight ass hugging trousers and Versace shirts and struts through the salon like the stallion that he is. He works when, and only when, he wants to and does what ever the hell he feels like… for he is PACO! Lord of the stylists! When our ridiculous management try to speak to him about it… he listens… smiles… and then does whatever the hell he wants to. I love him.
Next is Claudio – the other Senior Art Director – Italian. Works harder than anyone I know, can cut three women's hair at once and make them all look like Miss Venezuela '97 within thirty mins. And they love him for it. He is passionate, funny and tells it like it is. On the days I have slept in too late to wash (or brush) my hair he'll openly yell at me "What are you doing? You can be so pretty and you show up here looking like a cleaner! Stop it! You make me sick!" But then he'll give me a wink and a smile… and I'll reach for the damn hair brush.
Then there's my favourite of them all. The man who walks in slow motion, with his own personal wind machine. The one with the floppy brown hair, the endless sparkling eyes and the sex appeal oozing out of every single pore. His bi-sexual, French flirtations mix a heady cocktail I would take intravenously if I could. He rubs my shoulders, whispers in my ears, and plays with my hair and at many times I have thought to myself… if he doesn't stop I cannot be held responsible for my deeply inappropriate workplace actions… and then let him keep going. I tell him everyday that I love him and that the sooner he admits he loves me too, the better it will be for all of us involved. He tosses back those brunette locks and laughs… and I let him think I am kidding. This is Flavien – the Don Juan of Urban Retreat.
So here's to those of us who have day jobs… the things that keep our bills paid, our rent on time and our fridges stocked. The things that keep us occupied while we spend every spare nano second of our live running towards what we actually want - our dreams.
May your dreams and your day jobs be as entertaining as mine…
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