Gemma Grace: A Very Hairy Story.

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!