Today I have my first appointment with a Turkish kuaför; that’s hairdresser to you and me. Unsurprisingly, Ahmed has a friend who apparently used to look after his mother’s hair. The magic words that the woman in your life always wants to hear. Although I suspect that this choice has been price driven or he’s on commission!
So off I trot – well actually Ahmed pulled the car up kerbside and I kind of turtle-rolled out of the car. The salon is a flashback to the seventies with a bank of upright helmet hair dryers against one wall. Toni & Guy it ain’t! The posters surrounding the walls are of smiling young people with over coiffed and gravity defying locks, all gelled to within an inch of their life. These do nothing to reassure me either!
Sensing she may be losing a customer, the kuaför friend of Ahmed’s, takes my arm and firmly guides me across to the wash basin. One way or another, I am not going to be leaving here today, without some form of hair torture and/or fewer lira in my purse. Resigned to my fate, I allow her to administer hair colour to my tresses, whilst I read the English newspaper that Ahmed had thoughtfully bought for me. Two hours later, and copious amounts of dubious hair product, I am rooted to the spot as I gaze at my unrecognizable reflection in the mirror. I have a magnificent Amy Winehouse beehive and my highlights are bleached radioactive blonde. Great, won’t need the lighting on in the apartment anymore. Ahmed will be pleased!
The man himself arrives to pick me up and I get a “s’okay” which means either he wants me to do his afternoon shift whilst he plays football or he is blinded with love and a suspect hairdo won’t make any difference.
So just for today, as I am at an all-time low, I am choosing to believe the latter but rest assured readers, tomorrow is another day in Tinky Town.