Liasons in Melbourne

We are in Melbourne, Australia and Mike is just finishing up the last week of school for this term. It is just like the old days when I used to visit him in college 20-some odd years ago. He sneaks out of class to come and spend the night with his smokin' hot wife. Then in the morning he leaves all disheveled and sleepy, wearing the same clothes as the night before.

I get to laze in the toasty bed while he trudges off to class calling me a foul temptress. It suits me perfectly.

We are in a very "flash" part of Melbourne, Lygone street, which is lined with expensive Italian clothing stores, fabulous Italian food, and gorgeous - well-put-together, wealthy Italians.

Enter Jules, wearing black, faded cropped pants, bright red Keen sandals, and a black, fleece, Nike running pullover. I couldn't look more po-dunk.

So I rise early yesterday morning thinking I will get something nice to wear and have my hair done (seriously in need after 2 months of no contact with an actual hairdresser.)

I flounce into a shop called "Frank (Something)" and pray I won't be snottily turned away. The woman, a mass of tousseled red curls herself, sweeps me in immdeiatly to a chair. "This" she must be thinking "is a dire emergency".

Suddenly there are LOTS of stylists around me, arms crossed, scowling, looking a mixture of concern and possibly fear. Then Frank himself arrives and the crowd backs up a few steps, turns their attention toward him and listens intently, nodding in agreement.

"The shape is WRONG" he says. "And it's too much. Just too much. Give it a bit of a chop here, add some life here, some movement here." He says, picking up handfulls of my overgrown mane. "Chandy, this is for you" he decrees.

The stylists scatter and Shandy appears. (Is that a white aura I see surrounding her?)

And Shandy goes to work. Combing and snipping, twirling and chopping. She uses a series of cutting instuments the likes of which I have never seen before. Frank comes by every few minutes to declare that she is doing it well, or to grab another scissors from somewhere and go at it himself.

After an hour of this wrapt attention Frank starts to talk to me about where I come from. "Oh yes, Minne-no-place" he says. "You must know Horst then."

Thinking he means do I know "OF" Horst Rechelbacher, the founder of Aveda Institute, I reply "sure, yes, I do."

"And did he recommend me to you?" he asks.

"Um..yes, of course" is my unconvincing reply.

"We worked together years ago" Frank says. "Before he sold his company and then bought it back from the fellow who stuffed it up so badly. I used to teach at the Institute there in Minne-no-place."

And then it dawns on me. This haircut in a salon on Lygone street, next to the shops with $6000 handbags, $500 jeans, and jewerly of unfathomable size is going to cost me a fortune! I begin to sweat.

Now the primping and fussing and dancing around isn't so entertaining. Now it is positively terrifying.

And when they finish - I love the cut, the style is remarkable, it falls exactly as it should. I look like a movie-star (albeit bit washed up, aging movie-star). Problem is I don't have a moviestar handbag with moviestar money inside. I have sport sandals in 45 degree weather, fleece Nike pullover, faded cropped pants wallet, with my money inside.

I cringe as they hand me the bill. "Don't sweat" I think. "Casually count the zeros" I do.

$70. Seventy Australian bucks.

Think I'll go back for a color tomorrow.