Dowesford, the nearest large town was over the border in Cornwall. We managed to get through passport checks and customs at the border post without a full body search...


Changes
Chapter 19
By Susan Brown

And you may find somebody kind to help and understand you
Someone who is just like you and needs a gentle hand to
Guide them along

So, maybe I'll see you there
We can forget all our troubles, forget all our cares and go

Downtown, things'll be great when you're
Downtown, don't wait a minute more,
Downtown, everything's waiting for you

Petula Clark*

Previously…

‘Yes, but I want you to promise me something?’

‘What?’

‘That you go and see the doctor and he refers you to a plastic surgeon. I cannot believe that your parents didn’t insist on it when the accident happened or why it has not occurred to you since.’

‘It happened a long time ago and plastic surgery wasn’t even considered by me or my parents.
I have always had long hair and you couldn’t see my ears anyway.’

‘That’s a feeble excuse, Jo. Now, are you going to be a good girl and do what Samantha says?’

She smiled doubtfully and just said,’ Okay,’ in a small voice.

‘Don’t sulk, Jo, or you won’t have any lunch.’

We looked at each other and giggled.

And now the story continues…

Dowesford, the nearest large town was over the border in Cornwall. We managed to get through passport checks and customs at the border post without a full body search (joke) and were soon on the straightish road leading into a town which was about twenty miles from home–I liked that, home; it really felt like home.

Large towns in Cornwall would be small ones anywhere else, the county not being the centre of much industry nowadays. Dowesford owed its origins to the tin mines in the area, now long disused. Now it catered more for tourists, it being on the edge of the moors. It didn’t boast–if that’s the word for it–a modern flashy shopping centre, it still had a traditional High Street with small lanes leading to more shops. It was a busy place and it was market day, making parking a bit of a nightmare. But Jocasta with her church connections managed to find a spot in St Mark’s car park; it was handy her being married to a vicar.

We ambled along the busy High Street, window shopping as we went and making notes of the shops we wanted to visit after the hairdersser’s.

We arrived at the salon about fifteen minutes before the time of our appointment. Jo was very reluctant to go in and I had to take her across to Penny’s Pantry for tea and a sticky bun before I could persuade her to enter the salon.

‘Look, Jo, your accident was just that–an accident. You’re more likely to get George Clooney come up to you and snog your tonsils out than have another accident like that.’

Jo looked wistful at the metaphorical image I had painted for her and it distracted her away from her worries for at least ten seconds. I used the distraction to continue.

‘Remember, we are doing this because I want to look beautiful, or as beautiful as an ugly ducking like me can, and you want to do something that you haven’t been able to do since you were eleven; so let’s do it.’

Before she changed her mind, we crossed the road and entered the hairdresser’s before you could say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. It wasn’t a large salon, having just six stations. Two of them were occupied. The smell wasn’t too bad, a bit chemically but not so as to make your eyes water. The lady behind the reception desk looked up and smiled.

‘Good morning, ladies, may I help you?’

‘We made an appointment?’

‘Samantha Smart and Jocasta Gotobed–’

‘Oh yes. Please do take seat, ladies. Your stylists won’t be a moment.

We sat down and I held Jo’s hand. I couldn’t care less if anyone looking thought we might be ‘close’ in the biblical sense.

Jo’s hand was slightly clammy and I hoped things would move along quickly, before she bolted out the door. Luckily, a few seconds later we were helped into two hairdressing cape thingies and led over to our seats by two women wearing pink smocks. I was pleased to see that they were not youngsters and I hoped Jo would have more confidence because of it. I looked up at the woman who was looking after me, the name on her chest said, “Julie”.

‘Erm, Julie,’ I whispered.

Looking puzzled, she frowned as if to say, ‘This one’s behaving weird’, but bent down so she could hear my whispers.

‘Sorry, it’s just that I’m worried about my friend. She had a terrible experience at a salon when she was a young girl and she’s worried about something awful happening now.’

‘Don’t worry, Miss; Marcia–the manager–is looking after her, she’s the best. Look, I’ll catch her attention and let her know your friend has a problem.’

‘Would you? Oh, thank you so much.’

Julie went to Marcia and called her away for a moment and they disappeared out the back. I looked at Jo and gave her the thumbs up and she smiled back rather weakly.

After a few moments, the two stylists returned. Soon I was having my hair washed and not noticing what was going on over the other side of the room. I thought that it was a good sign that I couldn’t hear any screaming.

It felt wonderful having my hair washed and conditioned by an expert. Julie had gentle hands and I was almost mesmerised by it all. As soon as she had finished she asked me the question.

How would you like your hair, Miss Smart?’

‘I—I don’t know. To tell you the truth this is a first time for me.’

She began messing about with my hair and frowning. ‘It’s a bit shaggy and the split ends have splits in them. Whoever cut it before did you no favours. Look, do you want glam, high maintenance or practical stylish and not too much messing about in the morning?

‘Erm–the second one.’

‘Very wise. Right sit back and think happy thoughts while I do something to repair this bomb site.’

‘You don’t have much of a bedside manner, do you?’

‘Well, I took all the courses about how to talk to clients and everything and then I came out into the real world. Most women want to know the score and the ones that don’t, won’t listen anyway. Right where are my shears–’

She cut, shaped, cut again, put some gunge on my hair, washed it again, trimmed, cut and did things with instruments which would look more at home in a Frankenstein movie. About half way through, a younger girl came over and got to grips with my nails. Judging by her expression and because she kept tut-tutting, I don’t think she was any too impressed with my nails or their condition.

They wanted to do my toe nails but I declined as I have tickly feet and I didn’t want to wet myself in a public place. Occasionally I stole a glance at Jo, but was unable to see her face. Marcia appeared to be making animated conversation with her and smiling a lot, so I hoped things were going well. Shortly afterwards some curtains were pulled around where Jo was, so I couldn’t see what was happening.

When I was younger, I used to go to the barber’s–in boy mode, that is–most barbers had a fixed amount of things that they talked about, the first being the weather, the second football/cricket/rugby/horse-racing and Wimbledon when our latest prodigy was being beaten, as usual. Then after showing the you back of your head in a hand-held mirror, it was ‘something for the weekend sir?’ and that was it.

It must be different for women. Julie and I talked about everything from fashion, love life, the latest picture we had seen, possible mutual friends, where I lived (‘ooh that’s nice.’); where she lived (where?), musical tastes and a plethora of other subjects. All the time she was making her magic with my hair. I had my face away from the mirror and I had no idea what she was doing, but there was certainly a lot of hair flying about and wondered if I might turn into a Sigourney Weaver lookalike–now that was an alien thought.

The manicurist had made my hands look much better and my nails looked lovely. They wanted to put talons on me, but I explained that I was an artist and needed shortish nails. I ended up with nails longer than before but still practical.

Julie finished with a blow dryer, teasing and tugging my hair this way and that. She told me to close my eyes she spray bombed me with hair spray; it got up my nose and on my tongue so that wasn’t very nice. However, I’m big girl, so I can take it. Eventually she finished and I was allowed to see myself. I was really worried what I would look like having given Julie carte blanche.

‘Ooh.’ I squealed looking at my reflection. My hair looked gorgeous; it had been lightened slightly making it a sort of light strawberry blonde colour and not the dirty variety that I was used to. I had a fringe that went across my eyebrows. The hair was styled in what I think is called a bob. It finished just above my shoulders and flicked inwards. As I moved my head, my hair swayed prettily. It looked and felt divine.

‘Oh, Julie, you’re an absolute marvel,’ I gushed.

‘Thank you, Miss, I did my best with it. I’m glad you like the style.’

I stood up and Julie helped me take the cape off. I couldn’t stop gazing at myself and the way my hair swished when I moved made me feel wonderful. I glanced acoss at Jocasta and saw that the curtains were still around her station, so I couldn’t see what was going on. Julie saw my concern.

‘Don’t worry; sometimes people prefer a bit of privacy when they have their hair done. I suggested to Marcia that she pull the curtains so your friend wouldn’t feel self-conscious.’

I went over and paid for the work done. It wasn’t cheap, but it was well worth it and I remembered to give Julia a generous tip.

‘Thank you, Miss,’ she laughed, bobbing a curtsy. ‘You can come back any time.’

I sat down in the waiting area and picked up a magazine, going straight to the letters page. I got engrossed in worried Pauline from Peckham and her thrush problem; I was interested because I worried about seagulls dive-bombing me. Anyway, I was interrupted as I heard a cough.

I looked up and there was Jocasta. Not the Jocasta whose hair hid her face, but a new Jocasta, all smiles with long dark wavy hair, that covered her ears but not her face. She looked years younger and her smile told its own story.

‘Wow, Jo, you look absolutely fabulous.’

‘So do you; that style really suits you.’

We said our goodbyes and thanks to Marcia and Julie and made our way down the road to a coffee shop on the corner that we had noticed earlier.

We ordered a couple of lattes and Danish pastries and as soon as we had sat down, began swapping stories of our salon experiences.

‘I was petrified,’ Jo told me. ‘I know it’s silly, but I am what I am. Anyway Marcia was a perfect angel and put my mind completely at ease. She explained exactly what she was doing and as she worked her magic, I told her what had happened when I was a girl–she was shocked and could hardly believe it. She gave me the card of a plastic surgeon she used on her nose job. She said that he is the best in the area and was sure that he would be able to sort out my ear. I love my hair; it makes me feel like a new woman and my nails–d’you think that they’re too red?’

‘No there’re fine, look at mine.’

After oohing and ahing for a while in an orgy of mutual appreciation, we finished our lattes and pastries and then were out, hitting the shops running.

The first thing was to find a mobile ’phone shop. As we went in a spotty youth came over and ogled us. As he was half our age and he kept staring at our chests, I’m not sure if we felt flattered–anyway enough of that. I asked the important question.

‘I’d like to buy a ’phone, what would you recommend?’

Immediately, he slipped into sales mode. ‘We have 3g, T mobile, Virgin, Vodaphone packages either PAYG or contract. Some contracts include free texts and internet connection. You can play music or surf the net, take pictures and play games, You can–’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Err, yeah?’

‘I want a ’phone,not a multi media centre. Do you have one that actually makes ’phone calls?’

‘Yeah, but don’t you want to take pictures, play games, text or go on the internet?’

‘No, I want a ’phone. Texts would be useful but I don’t want any of that other rubbish. Oh, and I don’t like touch screens or buttons that are too small for your fingers either.’

‘I—I’ll see what I can find,’ he said walking off and looking a bit shell shocked at my blasphemy.

I glanced at Jo. She seemed somewhat amused and her eyebrows were raised.

‘What?’

‘Well, the poor boy was only trying to help.’

‘And staring at my chest most of the time, I wouldn’t mind but these girls aren’t home grown.’

‘He wasn’t to know that.’

‘Was I too hard on him?’

‘I’m sure he’ll get over it with therapy.’

I managed to buy a ’phone that did everything I wanted and we left the lad somewhat bemused, but at least he had a sale under his studded belt.

We continued our quest by visiting several clothes shops. I forget how many things we tried on; there were dresses, tops, skirts, capri’s, including some things we wouldn’t be seen dead in, but tried on anyway. We finished up laden with carrier bags. We found lingerie shop and I went panty mad and bought ten pairs together with matching bras .I also bought some naughty but nice cami’s a couple of teddies and some drop dead gorgeous nighties. Then we returned to the car and put what we had bought in the boot. Then it was show–I mean shoe–time and we wore out our feet trying lots of shoes and boots, the net result being, more bags in the car boot.

We had a very late lunch in a pub down by the river. I had steak and kidney pie and Jo had scampi. It was pleasant in the pub, sort of cosy and no rush to eat our food. By now we were virtually shopped out and needed something of a breather after all our exertions. I was glad I hadn’t worn shoes with much of a heel. Even in these shoes my feet were aching. Mind you it had been lovely trying on all those super and not so super things. It kind of reminded me that men’s clothes were sooo boring. Women have so much more choice.

In the centre of town there was a big store called Hadley’s that we hadn’t explored yet. It was one of those department stores on several floors. We decided we would look in there after lunch and then call it a day. After finishing our coffee and mints, we were straining at the leash and made our way to Hadley’s.

The ground floor was mainly women’s clothing, but to be honest, it seemed to be aimed at the older woman and anyway, I had enough clothes to keep me going for a while–unless, of course I found That Special Dress that I couldn’t not have.

I noticed a nice little cocktail number that I lusted after, all black and filmy, but I couldn’t buy it. What was the point? I would have no reason to use it and anyway it wasn’t practical and the price–it cost enough to feed a family of four for three months. As we made our way to another department, the smell hit us. The clash of fragrances from the different perfume counters was enough to overpower the senses.

It was laid out so different manufacturers of perfumes and cosmetics each had their own displays and counters.

Lurking around each counter were one or two women. They all had one thing in common, they smelt divine and every one of them had a flawless complexion from the makeup they were selling.

Olivia’s favourite pastime was to get a makeover done by these experts and it seemed like a good idea to me. Obviously my time with her hadn’t been wasted completely.

Recognising a good thing when I saw it, I dragged Jo around the various displays. I became aware of the predatory look in the eyes of some of the cosmeticians as we made up our minds as to which counter to try. In the end, I plumped for one pair that didn’t look as desperate for the trade as the others did. In seconds, we were being made over as if there was no tomorrow.

While Jo was put into the tender hands of Tracey, I was at the mercy of Veronica, a young girl who, under all her makeup, looked about twenty. However she knew her stuff and did a skin test on me. Evidently I had uneven skin tones which sounded nasty and made me want to call the doctor, but it turns out that it’s very common and easily hidden by the miraculous foundation she was just about to apply.

I was quite new to this facet of womanhood and it was fascinating how Veronica’s makeup can evidently turn one’s face into something that wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of Vogue. Even the night cream they could supply would help remove the appearance of fine lines. As for the face scrub; well who needed face lifts when you could enhance your beauty by applying magic cream regularly.

All the time she was giving me the hard sell as she applied various types of makeup. After the foundation, she set it using a huge brush and some translucent powder. I wasn’t sure how the powder would be translucent but who am I to argue?

Next she concentrated on my eyes: first, eye liner which made me nervous as I only had two eyes and I wanted to keep them both–thank you very much. She plucked out several thousand eyebrow hairs, making me wonder if she had a sadistic streak as her smile never faltered for a moment. Judging by the ‘ow’s’ coming from the other end of the counter, it seemed that Jo was receiving a similar torture.

Then eye shadow, ‘several shades to help enhance and beautify madam’s wonderful eyes.’

While she applied mascara, she explained that the special formulation made my eye lashes four times thicker, making me wonder if I would take off if I batted them too much.

Finally after she set everything again using the translucent powder, she attacked my lips. Lip liner first–to give madam’s lips some shape and prepare them for the luscious lip gloss–stays on for hours and needs chipping off at bedtime. She didn’t actually say that, but you get the drift.

I wondered how much of a clown I would look. Finally, when she had finished, she whipped off the cape and spun the stool around so that I could see the full glory of her creation. It looked like me in a vague sort of way. I knew it had to be me because if it wasn’t, it was a trick mirror. All my unkind thoughts about Veronica faded away. I knew that underneath, I wasn’t particularly pretty. Let’s face it I was born a man, an effeminate looking man with a thin face, nice eyes, small turned up nose and no discernable Adams Apple, but like this, with the makeup properly applied I looked…quite beautiful. I thought I was good at applying makeup, but I wasn’t in the same league as this. I appreciate art and what she did was paint a canvas–a skin canvas–but nevertheless it was something that I would love to be able to do properly.

I turned to her and smiled.

‘Thank you, Veronica, you’ve made me look beautiful.’

‘Yes, you do look lovely. I’m please that you like it.’

‘I only wish that I could apply makeup the way you can.’

‘You should come to some of our beauty classes, they’re held once a fortnight at the leisure centre. I’ll give you a leaflet before you go. Now, I’ve put together some of the things that I have used today should you wish to purchase them.’

There was a box, full of cosmetics and yes, I did buy them. It was worth it and let’s face it I could afford to pamper myself a little. I fully intended to take lessons too, so the money wouldn’t be wasted. After saying goodbye to Veronica, I wondered over to Jocasta who was facing away from me, buying a box of things that looked suspiciously similar to mine.

She said, ‘’Bye,’ to Tracey, turned around and then saw me at the same time as I saw her. It must have been some sort of karma as both together, we said, ‘Oh My God!’

Her face looked beautiful and absolutely flawless, her eyes looked Bambi-like and her lips were full and inviting. With her new hairstyle and everything, I wondered if David might need artificial respiration after seeing his beloved looking so glamorous.

As we left the store, arm in arm looking I think, the best we could ever look, The Dress caught my eye again. I could hear it calling me and it was no good, a few minutes later, I left with it, determined to wear it at the first posh do I was invited too.

As we returned to St Marks to collect the car, we both kept looking at our reflections in shop windows and I think we even turned a few heads.

Yes, it had been a splendid day’s shopping–I hoped the first of many.

* http://www.absolutelyrics.com/lyrics/view/petula_clark/downt...

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To Be Continued...

The Cove By Liz Wright

Please leave comments...thanks! ~Sue

My thanks go to the brilliant and lovely Gabi for editing and pulling the story into shape.