When I was a kid I was vain about my
hair. It was long. I mean really long. I was that girl in class sitting on her
hair just to prove to the other girls how long (and therefore superior) my hair
was. I’d braid it, plait it, side ponytail it, pigtail it, pile it on top of my
head with an assortment of fluoro combs. I’d wind it up tight into a bun and
fasten it with a scrunchie. I’d put clips in it and spray glitter in it. I’d go to the local markets with one
intention only; to buy more of those headbands with the interchangeable
flowers. All I wanted was the latest in hair trends to hit the playground.
Alligator clips featuring sparkly unidentifiable flowers? You’re mine!
As the 90’s (and thank god!) my love of all things glitter
melted away I wanted more than what a few well placed accessories could offer
me. I wanted cool cuts and crazy colours! There was however just one teensy
tiny hurdle on my way to hair heaven. My mother.
For years her and I would go through the same hair routine.
We’d walk the two blocks to our local hairdressers house, jump the ditch, go
inside, pass a cute blonde kid playing with an enviable assortment of Barbies
and find ourselves in the small familiar salon. I’d perch myself on the bright
yellow chair and hear my mother say those words I’d come to dread.
“Just a trim.”
Snip, snip, snip. Chat, chat, chat. Snip, snip, snip.
And so it went on. I would get my trim. Five dollars would
be handed over (a back to school special), and out we’d go, leaving the cute
kid to her Barbies and the hairdresser to her small salon filled with all the
things I longed for! So many mysterious bottles, that big bobbly thing that
seemed to engulf a persons whole head, (was it a miraculous hair colour
changer?) curling tongs, rollers, foaming mousse and so much spray!
My teenage years brought some change. No longer was the
ability to sit on your own hair the height of schoolyard cool. That same
hairdresser cut it a bit shorter for me, put a few layers in it, gave me a
fringe, nothing extreme. My mother still in my ear,
“Just a trim.
Just a trim. Just a trim”
In an act of defiance I splashed out on an eight dollar
packet of dye from Coles. ‘Mulberry’ it had said on the packet. ‘Uneven, patchy
purply, pinkish mess’ is what it should have said on the packet.
I thought blonde may be the way to go.
“Squeeze some lemon juice in your hair and sit in the sun.”
Ahhhh sure thing Mum...
Instead a friend introduced me to this miracle spray. You
spray some in your hair, you catch a little sun, next thing you know sexy
blonde hair is all yours! Easy! So we sprayed some in our hair, we caught a
little sun, and we waited. We waited with our backs to a fireplace... Needless
to say the heat from said fireplace turned the back portion of our hair blonde.
The top was still our regular brown and the back was now a mousy, inconsistent
blonde. Nice one...
A twenty-four hour plane trip and a slight visa debacle
followed by a hurtling love affair with a wet, whisky filled city and I was ready.
That is to say I was more than ready. Sleek black chairs, glossy mirrors, slick
undercuts and hints of tattooed bodies. A new city bringing with it a new kind
of hair experience. My salon of choice far different from that sweet little
salon back home. This place? A revelation! Tucked away in an arcade full of
dark shops. Records, vintage clothes and patent, platform shoes, leather and
lace and cigarettes. And yet still my mother’s voice was in my ear.
“Just a trim. Just a trim. Just a trim.”
But this time was different. This time I was watching long
lengths fall deliciously to the ground. I walked out of that place elated in
the knowledge that pieces of that awkward, small town kid were being swept up
by a tattooed Irish hipster.
Fast forward a year or so and I found myself back in that
same country town I’d grown up in and back in that same hairdressers chair.
This time however the chair was not yellow, the salon not at the back of her
house. With a shiny new salon at her disposal and my mother (bless her) no
longer accompanying me to my appointments we were free to venture down any hair
styling path we chose. And so we did, her and I (and later as the business grew
her fabulous team of stylists). I’ve dabbled in pixie cuts, undercuts, two
tone, white blonde, pink highlights, red, copper, walnut, caramel, ombre and a
whole host of other delicious sounding ‘hairdressy’ words.
A few months ago one of the hairdresser’s lovely staff
members asked if she could use me as a hair model for a competition she was
entering. I was of course more than happy to oblige. Well she won her category
in that competition. Hooray! And I must also add that another stylist from that
very same salon won her category in that same competition. Hooray, hooray! The
real excitement came when the winning images along with an article by the
hairdresser were PUBLISHED! Hooray, hooray, hooray!
My biggest thrill? Remembering those early days with the big
yellow chair, and that cute blonde kid surrounded by Barbies. That same ‘kid’
who had dreamed and planned and cut and coloured and meticulously styled my own
locks and who now had her work printed and glossy in a national fashion
magazine.
To the hairdresser, Kerrie DiMattia and her fabulous team,
CONGRATULATIONS!
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The Autumn issue of Catalogue is out now. Go on...buy it!
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| Photographer Pixie Bella Hair Lauren DiMattia, DiMattia Hairdressing Make-up Candice Chevalley Model Little old me... |
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| Photographer Pixie Bella Hair Demi Brotherson, Dimattia Hairdressing Make-Up Candice Chevalley Model Jess Burt |
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| Photographer Pixie Bella Hair Demi Brotherson, Dimattia Hairdressing Make-Up Candice Chevalley Model Jess Burt |
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| Photographer Pixie Bella Hair Demi Brotherson, Dimattia Hairdressing Make-Up Candice Chevalley Model Jess Burt |
