The bars of my prison cell widen somewhat

I had managed to arrive home yesterday, my orange head mainly covered with a New York Yankees beanie, with little or no trouble. The train from Malaga to Fuengirola was reasonably full – the Spanish make excellent use of their excellent public transit – but I stood in a corner with my head bowed and facing the wall, and people left me alone. The bus from Fuengirola to Calahonda was almost empty at that time of evening, so I sat close to the back and counted down the stops to Las Postas. Back in the apartment, I had poured myself a large drink, and gone to look in the mirror. The light of the bathroom has a low-impact bulb (around but possibly not reaching 20W), and the yellowness of the light didn’t help my mood. The hair was definitely orange. I wandered round the apartment incessantly, like Rilke’s Panther (but orange), wondering what to do. I called home and explained the pickle in which I found myself.

Mrs Ottawacker wasn’t too helpful. She was coming down with something and struggling to speak coherently. At least, that was the only explanation for the noises coming from the other end of the line. Finally, she gathered herself.

“You got it dyed?” she said. “Why?”

That was a good question. I was happy with my greying hairs. I left them alone and they left me alone. It was like the wasps’ nest we had had near the bathroom window. It was perfectly fine until Bruce had tried to remove it with a stick.

“They just said they were going to do it,” I answered. “When else would I ever get it done? And it was free.”

“But Odalia does your hair basically for free,” she said. She was right. Our neighbour is a lovely, talented, kind hairdresser, who steps in more than happily to give me haircuts. The problem is, I hate haircuts. I always have. I have to build up to them for months. 

I slept badly that night.

The next day (i.e., the day of this blip), was spent in a state of semi-shock. Ottawacker Jr. told me how he hadn’t seen his mother laughing this hard for a long time. “Thanks dad,” he said. “We were both feeling a bit sick, but you made things better. We needed that,” he said. It’s great to be useful.

I contacted the Instituto de Belleza, who confirmed nothing was available till Monday. There was no way I could wait till then. I walked around Calahonda, where at the time all of the hair salons were closed for lunch. I went to a caf, sat huddled in a corner with my beanie on, and searched the Internet. Eventually, I found one called “HairMagic Calahonda” and contacted them via Facebook.

Despite the obvious fact that “HairMagic Calahonda” wasn’t the greatest name in the world, I couldn’t deny that it was convenient. In fact, when I checked the address, I could see it was literally 20 metres from the apartment complex in which I was staying. Plus, it was owned by an English woman. I could perhaps explain more easily what it was I needed. I sent off a quick message.

“Hi there, I am in Calahonda for a few days and am looking for an “EMERGENCY INTERVENTION” of sorts. I’ve just been a model for the Instituto de Belleza and it has gone badly wrong. I look like Donald Trump. I am looking to either go back to my original colour or get it cut really, really short. Is there any way you can help? Thanks in advance!!”

The response came back in two minutes.

"That’ll be an easy fix so don’t worry! We can do tomorrow at 2.30 or Saturday at 1.30?”

My heart swelled. How I loved the English. So helpful. So kind. So I took the first appointment and felt, for the first time in a long time, at peace. I took off my beanie and put my head back. The waitress came by and offered me another coffee. I smiled and said yes.

“I like your hair,” she said. “It’s orange. My mother has the same colour.”

Dinner, alone, at the Coriander restaurant. Incredibly, an Indian/Mexican fusion place.