Most People’s Hair Didn’t Fit Them

Simone was only five minutes in the job when she noticed that most people’s hair didn’t fit them. She knew it was rude to comment. This was an exclusive sort of club and the men who frequented it paid through the nose to be treated like royalty. They wouldn’t take kindly to any of the girls, particularly a new girl like Simone, drawing attention to their hair. Hair was something of a big deal to the sort of men who frequented the club. Or perhaps, it would be more accurate to say it was lack of hair which preoccupied them, for there were few left in possession of their own. They were men of a certain age; this being a polite way of saying they were very, very elderly and, nine out of ten times, bald as a cue ball. A handful brazened it out, polishing their shiny pates with olive oil and Vaseline so they gleamed like silver platters beneath the club’s chandeliers. The majority wore wigs -toupees if they could get away with it- or dragged what remained of their natural hair across the dome of their heads in a greasy, corrugated flap.

Given the choice they invariably picked the wrong hair. The shade was a little too brassy. It drew the colour right out of their, already pallid, cheeks. It did not match the whiskers sprouting from their chins, nose and ears. The cut was too blunt or feathered in a rather womanly fashion. It emphasised sagging jowls or a prominent hooked nose. The style was -and this remained the insult to end all insults- a bit on the young side for a man of advanced years. Simone did not understand how these men could move around the club, confident as high kings, with such ridiculous things taking place on top of their heads. It was as if they never stood long enough in front of the mirror to get a good, honest look at themselves. Even the most cursory of glances should let you know whether your hair fitted correctly or not.

As she moved around the club, depositing cut glass tumblers of whiskey and doing her best to avoid wandering hands, Simone had to keep her eyes lowered. It was easier to avoid staring at their hair with her gaze fixed firmly upon the luxurious burgundy carpet. She did not make eye contact. She did not notice when they smiled at her and so made the mistake of not smiling back and, in doing so, got a name for being sullen and found herself relegated to the cloakroom where she checked coats and briefcases, umbrellas and -God help the poor girl- hats.

Hats were the bane of Simone’s life for, in removing a hat, it was not uncommon for a man to inadvertently also remove his hair, passing it across the counter, still attached to the inner lining of a smart trilby or deerstalker. Simone did not know what etiquette required her to say when forced to hand someone back his own hair. Sometimes she said, “I think you’ve forgotten something,” or, “perhaps this belongs to you.” Mostly, she just shoved the horrible thing back across the counter and tried not to blush. There was something rat like about the feel of dead hair, something which made her stomach turn.

The hair thing did not seem to bother the other girls as much as it bothered Simone. They told her not to be so sensitive. Play along with the old boys, they said. Run your fingers through their hair, tell them they look like they’ve just stepped out of a salon, pretend you haven’t noticed it looks like they’re wearing a mop on their head. The other girls had been there long enough to know that no good would come of pointing out that this man or the other one was wearing a lopsided wig. Simone couldn’t help herself. She did not yet despise the men who frequented the club. She felt sorry for them. She did not want people to laugh and point at them in the street. She couldn’t keep from telling them their hair did not fit and wasn’t on straight and looked like it might actually belong to a lady. She thought she was doing the men a kindness.

The men did not see it like this. The men did not like being made to feel small or ludicrous or dependent and Simone frequently made them feel all three simultaneously. The men asked if she might be moved from the cloakroom to the kitchen, knowing full well it was only a short distance from the kitchen to the club’s back door.

Inspired by a line from Agatha Christie’s 1941 novel, Evil Under the Sun