Zen Queen Read online

  Zen Queen

  KIRSTY MCMANUS

  Copyright © 2011 Kirsty McManus

  All rights reserved.

  For Moira Maclachlan.

  THANKS TO…

  At the risk of sounding like an uninvited guest at the Oscars doing one of those long and awkward speeches, I’m going to thank a few people who helped me along the way.

  Thank you, Moira, for encouraging me right from the beginning. I probably wouldn’t have kept going if not for your little pep talks.

  Thank you, Natasha, for your awesome support. I’m so glad we met at that writing workshop. Your kind words and gentle suggestions were very helpful.

  Thank you, Adam, for checking some of the Japanese stuff for me – and for doing a very helpful review (any incorrect information is solely my fault!).

  Thank you, Belinda, for being the first of my friends to read Zen Queen – and for your lovely feedback. You gave me the courage to actually ask other people to read it.

  And thank you to Sean for giving me some helpful suggestions, and for listening to me go on and on about writing whenever we catch up!

  Lastly, an extra special thank you goes to Kesh who helped make my life easier while I was writing this book, and who went through that crazy Japanese adventure with me!

  ONE

  “Hi! My name’s Cindy and I’m going to be your hair technician today! Would you like a glass of champagne or a cup of tea before we get started?”

  I marvel at the little elf standing in front of me. She’s only about four-foot-ten and dressed from head to toe in tight black lycra. She is also wearing the tallest platforms I’ve ever seen—which means she’d be positively tiny without the shoes. How does she not get a backache standing in those things all day?

  “Uh, just a cup of tea, thanks.”

  “Great. I’ll be right back.”

  It’s only two-thirty. If I start drinking now, there’s no telling what might happen later. But then again, I could probably use the Dutch courage. I’m not very comfortable in hair salons. A colour is one thing, but a cut is a life-changing and irreversible decision. I can’t even remember the last time I put myself at the mercy of a ‘technician’. Maybe five years ago? Could it really have been that long? I think my aversion stems back to when I was ten and my mum told the stylist to give me one of those ‘fetching pageboys’, and I came out sharing a do with an eighties animated action hero. I still suffer from confidence issues due to the relentless teasing at school. I was known as He-Man right up until I graduated.

  Cindy trots back and hands me a mug. “It’s rosehip,” she explains. “With a little honey. It’s full of Vitamins A, C, D and E. Plus,” she lowers her voice conspiratorially, “it helps prevent cystitis.”

  “Oh, right. Ta.” I wonder if this is some new hybrid service where hairdressers are also qualified to give out medical advice. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had changed the rules since I’d last had my hair done professionally.

  “Okay! Now let me just get my clipboard. Take a seat and we’ll start with a few questions.”

  Yeah, they’ve definitely changed the rules. I don’t remember filling out any questionnaires last time.

  I put my purse on the floor and it immediately attracts all the loose hair lying around nearby. Cindy grabs a pencil from the counter and perches on a small stool opposite. She slides in really close so that our knees are practically touching.

  “All right, first question. How much time do you spend styling your hair each day?”

  I think back to my routine this morning. Hmm. That’s probably not a great example. I wanted to get to the office early, but I forgot to set my alarm, so I didn’t even look at my hair today, let alone touch it. It’s quite possible that I forgot to brush my teeth as well. Oops.

  “About fifteen minutes?” I reply, half as a question.

  She looks at my ratty hair dubiously but writes it down anyway.

  “Question two. Which celebrity’s hair do you most admire?”

  I wonder how she’d react if I said Boy George in his Karma Chameleon days?

  “Um…I guess I kind of like…” I frantically look around the salon for inspiration. There’s a copy of Vogue lying nearby. I squint to see who’s on the cover.

  She follows my gaze to the magazine.

  “Catherine McNeil?” she suggests helpfully.

  “Yep. Her.” Who?

  She shakes her head and moves on.

  “What would you say your face shape is?”

  What does she mean? Isn’t it shaped like a face? Oh wait! I remember this from an old magazine article. There’s oval, round, square, heart…what’s heart again? Is diamond a choice? It sounds pretty.

  “Diamond?”

  She frowns and looks at me.

  “No, you’re definitely not a diamond. I would say…” She studies my face for a second. “…a square.”

  Really? I’m a square? That doesn’t seem right.

  “Have you permed your hair in the last twelve months?”

  Hang on. What decade are we in? Didn’t perms go out of fashion in the early nineties? I did actually try one a few years after the pageboy incident but it was also a huge disaster. On top of the He-Man taunts, I would often randomly hear sheep noises behind my back.

  “Is this really necessary?” I ask as politely as possible. “I mean, surely you can tell whether I’ve had a perm just by looking at my hair.” For the record, it’s dead straight.

  Her ever-present grin starts to falter.

  “Look, I know you probably think this is pointless, but it’s important to ascertain all the facts before choosing the right style for you. For all I know you could have used the GHD on it today and if I choose the wrong product, your hair could disintegrate and break off. You don’t want to go around looking like 2007 Britney, do you?”

  I’m taken aback. I didn’t realise the situation was so dire. Could I really end up bald? And what’s a GHD?

  “You know what?” I say, standing up. “I think I’ll be fine. I don’t really need my hair done. I’m only here because I’m supposed to be in a fashion show and my friend Alex seems to think that my current style isn’t good enough. But maybe if I just have a word with him…”

  I turn to leave.

  She smirks. “Honey, you totally need a makeover. And your friend already pre-paid, so you really should take advantage of the offer.”

  I sigh. She’s right. I can’t let Alex blow two hundred on me and not have anything to show for it.

  I sit back down, defeated. “Okay. Well do whatever you want, then. I don’t care.”

  Her eyes gleam. I hope I don’t regret this.

  ***

  I can’t believe I volunteered to be a model. Admittedly, Alex is my best friend and I would do almost anything for him, but this is asking a bit much—especially considering my aforementioned self-esteem issues. Alex owns a sports store in the city and came up with the idea of running a big promotional event and fashion show. He wants me to be part of it and model the new range of workout gear. But me? In yoga pants? In runners? Ha! It would be laughable if it weren’t such a mortifying prospect—striding down a catwalk in front of half our town and swaying my butt in time with the music. Actually, I just found out today that you’re not supposed to walk in time with the music. Apparently. it’s got something to do with keeping a consistent pace throughout the show. I guess that kind of makes sense. I mean, you wouldn’t want to be marching along to Too Funky and then have the song suddenly change to Black Betty. Everyone would start zooming around like they were on speed and then the show would be over prematurely. But then any choreographer choosing a song like Black Betty for a fashion show is just asking for trouble.

  Cindy paints a mud-like substance on my hair and
plonks me under one of those big heating pods. It makes me feel a bit claustrophobic. And it kind of burns my ears. In fact, ouch. This is really unpleasant.

  “Excuse me?” I call out to Cindy. “Could you please turn the heat down?”

  She doesn’t hear me at first. One of the other hairdressers has chosen that exact moment to turn on an industrial-strength blow-dryer.

  “EXCUSE ME!” I yell, right when the blow-dryer is turned off again. Cindy looks over, startled.

  “Sorry,” I apologise, my face turning pink. “It’s just that I think this thing is too hot.”

  She sighs and comes over to adjust the dial. “You only have seven minutes left, but if we turn it down, you’ll have to wait longer.” She goes out the back and I hear whispering. I hope she’s not talking to the other hairdressers about me.

  Gosh, these salons can be a bit intimidating. All the stylists are so pretty and confident. It’s enough to make anyone feel inadequate—especially considering my current reflection. I don’t stand a chance wearing this cape, and with my hair looking like Encino Man after he popped out of the ice.

  Finally Cindy decides I’ve been tortured enough and leads me to the basin. That’s another thing I don’t understand about the whole salon experience—when they tilt your head back at an unnatural angle against a ridge of porcelain. And then they make you stay there for ten minutes while they give you a ‘relaxing’ head massage. I always get headaches the day after having my hair done and I just know it’s because of the basin.

  She towel dries my hair and clips a tool belt around her waist. There are at least three different types of scissors on it. I’m starting to feel like I’ve stepped out of a time capsule into the future.

  I expect Cindy to start chopping away, but instead, she’s decided to inspect a strand of my hair. She looks at it like it’s a particularly unique archaeological fossil.

  “Tell me,” she says. “When was the last time you had a haircut?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe two years ago?”

  “Uh no, I don’t think so. It would have to be five at a minimum. See this split end? It takes significant neglect for something like this to occur.”

  My face reddens again. “I’m sorry,” I say in a small voice.

  “I just can’t understand how someone can let themselves go like that.”

  ‘Well, I’ve…I’ve been kind of busy,” I stutter. I’m not sure why I feel the need to justify myself to this woman, but in a way, she reminds me of one of the cool kids at school and I just want her to like me.

  “There’s no excuse for bad hair,” she continues to lecture. “You need to have some respect for your appearance. You’re probably single, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Guys aren’t interested in girls who don’t care about their looks, you know.”

  “I think this is getting a bit personal,” I say, wishing she’d just leave me alone. “Do you mind if I read a magazine while you cut my hair?”

  She stares at me at me for a minute and then thrusts an old beauty mag in my face.

  I hide behind an article called How Guys Rate You In Bed.

  I wonder if the universe is trying to tell me something.

  ***

  After what seems like hours of cutting and slicing, Cindy stands back to admire her work. She’s now treating my hair as its own separate entity, judging by the amount of attention she’s giving the owner.

  I cough politely to indicate I’m still alive. In response, she half-heartedly holds up a mirror to show me the back. I take a peek, and then instantly regret it. It’s awful. How could anyone think a haircut modelled on Johnny Depp circa Edward Scissorhands is even remotely attractive? There are chunks cut out all over my head, and these little stringy bits hanging randomly around my face. I want to die.

  “Doesn’t it look great?” she coos.

  I’m not sure if she’s being sincere or not. I really hope it’s some kind of joke. Any minute now she’ll laugh and say “Just kidding. Here’s what it really looks like,” and then she’ll whip off the wig she sneakily planted when I wasn’t paying attention, revealing a gorgeous new do.

  But the longer I sit there, the more I realise she’s serious.

  The other stylists peer over and make their obligatory approval noises. I think it must be a compulsory part of the hairdresser’s code or something. Do they really think this looks good?

  I fumble around for my handbag and get up, dazed. I walk out without saying another word and vaguely wonder if Cindy even notices. When I glance back, she’s already moved on to the next customer, so I guess not.

  I am beyond traumatised. I could maybe go to another salon, but it would probably cost a fortune to fix, and my bank account is a bit low at the moment.

  I walk down the street to the train station and avoid eye contact with everyone I pass. I’m afraid someone will laugh at me if I look up.

  Suddenly, I stop.

  Damn. I think I forgot my phone. I’d texted Alex from the salon to tell him where I was.

  I open my purse and rummage around for a moment just to make sure it’s not hiding in the corner under the mountain of receipts I can’t bring myself to throw away.

  “Oh, you poor thing.” An elderly lady stops and pats me on the shoulder. ”Here, take this.” She presses a few coins into my hand and totters off.

  What was that about?

  I try to call after the woman to give her back her money but she ignores me and keeps walking.

  I shrug and return to the salon.

  Cindy looks up in the midst of tormenting her next victim. The grin disappears when she sees me.

  “May I help you?” she asks politely. She doesn’t seem to remember that she’s just spent three hours destroying my hair.

  “I…er…forgot my phone.”

  “Oh.” She makes a big show of apologising to the girl in front of her for the interruption. She goes behind the counter and looks around for a moment before holding up an iPhone with a hot pink case.

  “Is this it?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I grab it and hurry out again. I’m feeling all wrong—like I have a terrible case of buyer’s remorse. Is it even still called that when you’re talking about something you didn’t actually pay for?

  I nip into Starbucks and order a latte. I need caffeine to get me through the afternoon.

  I stand out on the curb and swallow the scalding liquid in five seconds flat. It makes my eyes water. I stare blankly at the street for a moment.

  “Here love, go and buy yourself a hot meal.” A kindly man has just handed me a five dollar note. What on earth is going on?

  I walk to the station in a daze. Every now and then a stranger smiles sympathetically at me. It’s all very odd.

  Then it hits me. They think I’m a homeless person! My haircut is so bad that it looks like I’ve been roughing it on the streets. I want to stop them and yell “Can’t you see I’m wearing designer sneakers?” I’d borrowed them from Alex’s shop to practice my walk. Then I realise you can’t see them under the faded grey tracksuit pants I’m wearing—they were the closest thing I had to sports clothes. But my white t-shirt should be fine—it’s almost brand new. I look down and notice with horror that it’s covered in brown hair dye. I look like I have old food stains all over me. No wonder I’m being treated like a charity case.

  I have to get home immediately. The train will take too long—a cab will be much quicker. I stick out my thumb as one drives past. The driver looks at me with a wrinkled nose and keeps going. A second one slows down and winds down the window.

  “Where to?”

  “Just to Thorn Street.” I thrust my open wallet at him to prove I have the money. “Look, I can pay. I promise.”

  He looks at me, bewildered. “I never said you couldn’t.”

  I hop in the back seat gratefully. “Sorry, it’s just that everyone seems to think I’m homeless today.”

  “I don’t know why. That haircut must
have cost a bomb.”

  I stare at him, amazed. “Are you serious?”

  “Well, I can’t say much for the blow-drying technique, but it’s definitely cutting edge.”

  Today is just getting stranger and stranger.

  “How do you know that?” I ask curiously.

  “My daughter’s a hairdresser. We have copies of Hair Biz all over the house.”

  “Ah… I see.”

  “Look, you probably don’t think so now, but that style could look really good on you. When you get home, wash out all that gunk she’s put in your hair and then pin some clips here and here.” He twists around in his seat and points to his own bald head as an example.

  “Okay…I will. Th-thanks.” Who would have thought?

  “Here we are. That’ll be thirteen-ninety.”

  I hand him a twenty and tell him to keep the change. He smiles.

  “Go on. Go and pour yourself a glass of wine and try what I said. You’ll be surprised.”

  “I hope so.” I run over to my building at lightning speed and take refuge in the empty hallway.

  Phew. At least I didn’t see anyone I know.

  I zip up the elevator, unlock my door and hurry in, slamming it behind me.

  At last. I’m safe.

  ***

  An hour later, I’ve taken the cabbie’s advice. I’ve washed my hair and clipped it back like he demonstrated. He was right—it looks amazing now. Why couldn’t Cindy have done it like this in the first place? I’m feeling a lot better, so I pour myself some white wine and plonk down on the sofa, wrapped up snugly in my dressing gown. I flick on the TV to catch the five o’clock news.

  “Tonight’s special report highlights a serious problem in Brisbane. In a city as seemingly liveable as ours, an increasing number of people are being ignored. Without any way of speaking out, we must do it for them—and shed some light on this often misunderstood group of people.”

  I watch, riveted. I’m a sucker for human interest stories.