“SHAVE, MISS?”

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17831, 27 April 1926, Page 5

“SHAVE, MISS?”

(By Jane Doc, in the “ Daily Chronicle.”) Well, as I was saying last Thursday, l>efore I interrupted myself, I got out of bed one mofning during my seaside holidays, ' looked in the glass and Not altogether becaxisc 1 was such a sad sight with the back of my neck as untidy as a man’s chin with four days’ growth on it. but because I suspected what was coming to me. Strange towns are the shingled female's horror. I may be less than the hair-dust beneath the button boots of Number Six, who always “does” me in pny native suburb. He may ke£p me for hours in some dark, smelly corner of his master’s hair-dressing establishment with only the cover and two‘back pages of the “ Gossiper. ’ a splitting headache, and an empty stomach for company. But. at least, his job. With what efficient flourishes will- he wrap mcmp.in afiathsheet, tuck strips of cottonwool round my neck, run a ruler-like comb through my hair, and ■ make a brilliant parting, clean and j true merely by flicking a few hairs aside. How mercifully will he use the clippers, with no more than a twinge or so. And when, his task finished, he j presses firm hands on my earpieces, j and looks at me in the glass with the eye of an engineer I am at one with him in another shingling satisfactorily j accomplished. jTo walk into some unknown saloon, however, is for me to take my nerves aiid my comfort in my hands. I never km.w whether I am going to have my j ears clipped, my neck scraped, my hair j chopped, burnt, or ruined. my • temper shortened. My shingle has been mowed by cocksure young lady assistants with the aid of blunt. curved manicure scissors. < 'riminallv-minded gentlemen have lifted me from out of the toilet basin and let the cold rinsing drippings trickie aii the way down my spine. This, on a .dull day, is ja human being's most frightful sensation. Bumptious girls have carelessly dabbed my soused hair with.*a soaking towel for half a minute, and set all the burning fury of a gas heater on it. That day, however, I was in luck The most important hairdressers in the place could not spare me half an hour until the following day. And the start', from what I could see of it, was the usual ear-clipping, scissors-digging and neck-wetting fraternity. Then, further up the High Street. I saw an interesting sign outside a barbers modest shop. ‘‘No Waiting. Ladies! Take Your Turn With the Gents! ! Bobbing and Shingling by Experts! ! !” I took my turn on a ruby plush rout seat. “Purse,” sang out the boss, making me at home with a welcoming nod, “ get the lady a paper.” Purse, the lather boy. with hands like a couple of raw steaks slightly on the turn, brought me a whole magazine. Two gents were already in the chairs. One was being slobbered over his face, barring his eyes and red brow, by Purse's badger brush. The other was having those remnants of our more barbaric days, an old sinkbrush of a beard and moustache, trimmed and combed, with lightning There was more mirror space than I’ve seen in-any ladies' beauty shop. And the bottles! Golden oil. Mona Hair Cream. Lime Cream and Glycerine. Yellow lasmin Brilhantinc. Honey of Flowers Moustache Fixer. Pomades and hair tonics by the half dozen. Mouth washes, toothsome dentrifiees and face creams all over the place. Oh. gentlemen. When the bearded one was putting on his collar anti tie. and the boss was busily scraping the face of the other

client with a noise as of sandpaper on a steel fender, Purse motioned me to the vacant chair, and tied me around the chin, in readiness for the attentigjas of the boss. With sure scissors the latter followed my anxious directions, but from the first second 1 knew that my earlobes, my nerves, and the elegance of my shingle were safe in his worthy, capable and sp pleasantly friendly hands. From the tiniest of copper geysers he produced hot water, and gave me an oil shampoo and then, because the ruby plush scat was filling up, he turned Purse over to me with hot, antiseptic towels. Purse was shy. Purse- massaged my head (there wasn't a patent leather in the place) as if it were a sixpenny balloon liable to go pop at the least rough usage. Those terrible hands tended me more gently and a deal less clumsily than a woman’s. “.A little more ginger, if you please, Purse,” I murmured, encouragingly. Purse,blushed, and obliged me. 1 liked Purse. He lingered over his job as ij he were in no hurry to rush away and earn fresh tips. So. thoroughly did he use those Jiot, anti- ' septic towels that each hair of my head-stood out as if it had been elec- ■ trically charged. i But Purse was not satisfied. For five slumberous minutes he fanned my shingle with an Eastern palm leaf, while I leaned back in the chair with , my eyes closed, given over to a luxui rious feeling of ease and comfort no patent and noisy heater could have iri- , duced. Purse was whisking up lather for a J fresh customer, in a mug that looked like an invalid's shaving cup. when T sjipped a tip into one of those poor, ! raw hands. ! Purse blushed again, and whispered “Ta!” But the interesting and useful experience was spoiled for me, because, when I was getting my hat down from a peg, I caught sight of the new customer grinning at me from the glass. I could have dashed the lather•brush in his eves You sec. I had to stand on the plush seat to reach my hat. • Purse wouldn’t have laughed. He | was too much of a gentleman, I know.