Snip, Snip
Have you ever noticed that when you go to the hairdresser’s, you suddenly regress into childhood and become totally incapable of doing even the simplest things?
It doesn’t start immediately. The change is very gradual. You enter the shop and tell the person behind the desk who you are and when your appointment is. You head to the waiting area and read some mind-numbingly stupid magazines. So far, so good. Then your hairdresser arrives. She tells you her name is Cheryl and that you need to stand up to put on the hairdressing cape. This is where it all begins.
As you stare at the cape in front of you, your mind begins to race: Is this one of the capes that goes on like a jacket? Or, is it one that goes over the front, like a surgeon? Which hairdresser’s am I in? What did I do last time? You look up at Cheryl and realise that you’ve been staring at this cape for three seconds too long. You’re beginning to frighten her. You know this but you can’t move. Eventually, she makes the decision for you and pulls the cape on like a jacket.
But the helplessness doesn’t stop there. Cheryl walks around you and starts to fasten the cape for you. She simply ties it like a dressing gown, like you’ve down a hundred times before, and velcro’s the top. But, you can do nothing but stand there. You daren’t move in case she tells you off. You simply watch as she magically ties the last knot and suddenly you’re dressed. You’re officially a child again.
You don’t move until she tells you to follow her and you obediently do as you’re told.
Next she washes and dries your hair and, again, easy questions that you’ve coped with all your life become IQ-challenging trivia tests. Is that water too hot? You’re not sure, but you think Cheryl thinks it’s fine so that must be the right answer. “Yes,” you say, safe in the knowledge that you’ve made her happy. It’s only moments later you realise that your scalp is burning.
You need to follow her again and the actual hairdressing begins. Sit perfectly still in the sit and answer any questions that she asks you. This moment is particularly excruciating for me as, without my glasses, I can’t see anything that is happening in the mirror. I’m completely at the mercy of Cheryl. I clench my hands in my lap and try not to panic. I couldn’t do anything even if I wanted to. I’ve already forgotten how to function in regular society.
Tilt your head that way, look down, look left, just a little bit right. The instructions come thick and fast until your neck muscles have gone completely slack and the slightest nudge has your head rolling to one side. You’re not even aware what is happening until, finally, it’s over. She shows you the mirror; it looks fine, you’re free to go.
You go to the till and you pay and eventually, you start to become normal again. You even remember your PIN number and you manage to own punch it in to the machine. By the time you’re ready to walk out the door, you’re back to your old self. The balance of the world is restored. Everything is going to be fine.
Until you need to return here 6-8 weeks later.
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Tower Bridge
I have lived in London for three years and I never knew you could walk across the top of Tower Bridge. I haven’t paid the bridge much attention at all, to be honest, just the occasional glance when crossing its more famous cousin, London Bridge. But when I discovered it was in fact possible to walk over the top, I just had to go.
London Bridge was intended to be the only Thames crossing in the city, but as the population and trade grew, so did the need for bridges. In the first instances, these bridges were only built to the west of London Bridge and it wasn’t until 1884 that work began on what would soon become Tower Bridge. The east end had become so densely populated and the port so over-burdened that the city council couldn’t bear it any longer.
Over 50 designs were contemplated before the work of Horace Jones and John Wolfe Barry was chosen. The building of the bridge took eight years. Two massive piers were sunk into the riverbed and 11,000 tonnes of steel was used to construct this immense structure. 432 contractors were used and it was finished in Cornish granite and Portland stone.
I wasn’t aware of any of this, though, as I was hustled over the walkways on this particular evening. We had arrived a little later than anticipated and it was quite evident that the exhibition staff didn’t want us there. Nevertheless, I took my time to take in the history of the place, peer out through the viewing points and stare at the pictures of lovely bridges from all over the world.
The walkways have only been re-opened since 1982 after falling into disuse in the early 20th Century. I found it quite thrilling to be in there, though the view is not really anything to write home about. It is one of the best-loved and most-photographed bridges in the entire world, which is something of an achievement when you consider that it isn’t even close to being the tallest or the longest or the heaviest. I think people love it so much because it’s quite simply stunning to look at.
Tower Bridge is a bascule (from the French, meaning “see-saw”) bridge. It is raised at least twice a day and was originally powered by steam. Following the exhibition (and not even being allowed to guse the toilet), we plunged straight into the Engine Rooms. This is where the magic used to happen.
Up until 1976, the bridge was opened by hydraulics that used steam to power the enormous pumping engines. The resulting energy was stored in six huge accumulators and was readily available whenever the bridge needed to be raised. The accumulators would then feed the driving engine which would open the bridge to a 86 degree angle.
Shuffling around the Engine Rooms now, you are struck by the sheer power of it all. It must have been unbearably hot in there, but the technological wonders on display are quite astounding. To learn that the bridge is now powered by boring oil and electricity is one of the most disappointing pieces of news I’ve received in quite some time.
We retreated to the bank of the Thames for the 18.30 raising of the bridge. We took touristy pictures and lounged around with the touristy crowd. Right on time, the bridge was raised, it let a boat through and was dropped again. It was a very precise affair taking only a matter of minutes. It was neither exhilarating nor disappointing. It was merely the perfect end to the tour.
Sofa So Good
The brown sofa featured in this week’s – and many other week’s – Kez and Luke comic strips actually has a real-life counterpart. We bought it in the summer of 2006 for £200 with the money my granddad had given me for my 21st birthday. I believe it was the first piece of furniture we ever bought together.
When we moved into our first flat, we simply cobbled together our furniture from various family members. Our living room had a television from my old room at my mum’s house placed on top of a TV cabinet also stolen from my mum’s garage. We had a small book case to the left (filled with our own books, surprisingly) from the garage and a wicker chair from my mum’s conservatory. It was only small, kind of like a snuggle seat, but incredibly uncomfortable. We liked to think it was minimalist but, really, it was threadbare.
Our kitchen was stacked with cutlery Kez’s mum no longer needed and glasses my nan was planning to give to charity. I think we may have bought some pots and pans, but only the least we could get away with. We still have the colander that used to live under my mum’s sink.
Finally, the bedroom was Kez’s sister’s bed that she had left at her mum’s house and the bedside tables were, and still are, also Kez’s sister’s hand-me-downs. Even the quilts and throws were pieced together from both of our families. We simply moved ourselves and our clothes into that flat and let the others provide the necessities.
It was after about two weeks of sitting in that bereft living room on that uncomfortable chair that we decided that enough was enough. We needed something to call our own. We needed to get rid of that wicker chair. We needed a brown sofa.
Admittedly, we didn’t put much thought into the sofa. We merely pointed to the best looking sofa in the Argos catalogue that was within our budget. It looked okay and we figured it would do. We were pleasantly surprised, however, by the sofa that arrived the following week.
The cushions were nice and poofy. The colour matched the rest of the flat. And, most importantly, it was comfortable. There was room enough for one or both of us to lie down or even not sit on each other’s laps. We could watch the borrowed TV without having to pull the sharp wooden shards out of our butts. It was glorious.
We gradually bought more and more stuff and eventually moved to a larger flat. We’ve bought another sofa (though it is hardly used), two DVD racks, a computer table, a computer, a TV cabinet, two bean bags, our own bed and quilts and even some lamps. It all started with the sofa, though.
Our life living together began with that sofa and it continues to this day. We’ve changed the pillows since then, but little else. One day the sofa may breakdown and we may have to buy a new one. But I hope not. I hope we can have that sofa forever.
It’s my favourite place to be, together.
