Salon Pierre

For an eighteen year old fresh out of school, instead of going to University, I was hitting the world of the gainfully employed apprentice hairdresser, my new job was scary.

The guys that owned this high-end salon in a high-end part of Sydney's Eastern Suburbs were as alike as chalk and cheese, on the one hand, there was 'Blue', I don't know what his real name was, it's probably somewhere in my apprenticeship application. Blue is as 'ocker' as they come, he wears either khaki shorts and black singlet, or the full cami gear complete with a weapons belt with pouches in which he keeps his hairdryer, comb, brush and scissors. On his feet he wore, depending on the outfit, blunnies (Blundstone brand steel toe-capped elastic sided work boots, or combat boots. He called everyone 'mate', even the women.

On the other hand, there is Pierre, a terribly effete young man whose dress and attitude screamed out that he was as camp as a row of tents, everyone, regardless of gender or age, was 'Darling'.

I had to sign what was, essentially their version of the 'Official Secrets Act', promising not to divulge their secret.

Blue was the gay one while Pierre was as straight as they come and because the men felt comfortable leaving their loved ones in his hands, it was alleged that he was shagging himself silly. There seemed to be some sort of competition between his female clients to see who could hold on to his sexual attention the longest. I think the record sits at one month and the strange part about it is there is never any animosity when the woman in question loses her grasp on him.

The weird thing about Pierre, real name Peter, the product of a working-class western suburbs family, was that he had a live-in girlfriend who I would describe as 'drop dead gorgeous'. Libby was a petite blonde in all but one, or is that two, features. In the old pre-decimal measurements, she was a 32DD. Any resemblance to your common garden type dumb blonde was dispelled when you spoke with her. She was a university graduate with a Doctorate in Psychology. It was Libby who revealed the biggest secret of Salon Pierre, while Pierre didn't fuck anyone, other than Libby that is, such was his stud reputation that not one of his clients would ever admit to not getting beyond first base, if in fact, they got that far.

All of this was a part of the marketing strategy of Salon Pierre. Peter would show all his female clients a platonic good time in exchange for them spreading the word about the salon, for which they were paid a 'spotters fee'. The business thrived to the point that there were now, apart from Blue and Pierre, four full-time hair 'artistes' and three apprentices, and we were busy most of the time, especially on Fridays and Saturdays. Saturdays were usually reserved for weddings, where for an almost indecent fee, the full repertoire of the salon was used to create something special for the bride and her attendants.

Six months down the track I was called into the office, I thought for some sort of periodic review. This meeting was to change my world. "Tiffany, we have noticed something special about you."

"Special, in what way?" I thought of myself as 'ordinary'.

"We have noticed your make-up, it is a vision of understated perfection. Do you do this yourself or do you have someone do it for you?"

"It's all my own work. My mother is a make-up artist and she taught me. She works in television that is totally different to everyday use, the cameras play tricks with make-up and you have to understand that. With everyday make-up, you have to be aware of the differing lighting scenarios that the wearer has to be exposed to throughout the day."

"If we were to offer you a different position, as an add-on to your apprenticeship, would you be interested?"

"Yes, what exactly are we talking about?"

"You are aware that our core business revolves around the top end social scene, parties, balls and, in particular, weddings. If you can use your talents with these clients the job is yours."

So it was, many wedding parties later, I was introduced to the latest bride to be as 'Miss Tiffany', who would apply her knowledge of make-up to transform the client into the star of the day.

Some of the many transformations were a piece of cake, the lady in question had flawless skin and great bone structure, while others need half a tub of spakfilla to hide the pits and lines. Whatever the case, I had earned a reputation and a lot of extra money. The salon charged a substantial fee for my services and I received an equally substantial gratuity, I'm not allowed to call it a tip, far too gauche.

As most of my time was now involved in this aspect of the business, I had to ensure that I did enough hairdressing to keep up with the requirements of my apprenticeship.

Close to the end of my third year, I found myself in a dilemma. The bride to be, Sylvie Foreman, flinched as I began to remove a hefty layer of make-up so I could begin to perform my miracle, and a miracle it would be. The bruises were a couple of days old but the swelling had not yet gone down. "Who did this to you?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" She averted her face.

"Someone's been knocking you around. I hope it isn't the guy you're about to marry.'

Just before the floodgates opened she whispered. "It is, what am I going to do? I have to go through with this."

"Why do you have to do this?"

"It's a long story. Forget it, it's my problem."

"Come with me." I helped her to her feet, which must have hurt because she flinched again. Her three attendants had a puzzled expression on their faces, something that I thought wouldn't be too much of a stretch for them, as I stopped beside Pierre who was just finishing a client's hair. "Pierre, could we have a word with you?"

"Certainly Darlings, I won't be a minute."

I led Sylvie to the lunchroom and made her a coffee. "You're marrying Ranalph Jameson aren't you?" Pierre asked as he helped himself to a coffee.

"Yes," Sylvie whispered.

"I'm not surprised that Tiffany has asked for my advice, and give it I will, dump the bastard!"

"But I can't."

"Why not?" He asked. From what he said next he knew exactly why not. "It has something to do with your father?"

"You know about this, how?"

"In this business, we are the eyes and ears of the world Darling. I wouldn't worry too much about whatever hold he has over your father, After I speak to a friend of mine he will change his mind. Tiffany Darling would you go out and tell the girls that the wedding is off and they can go home, no charge for the treatment." Turning to Sylvie he said, "You will stay here for the duration and then we will find a place for you to stay until this dies down."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Let's just say that I am repaying a debt from years ago."

When I came back into the lunchroom Pierre told me to take Sylvie into the storeroom and stay with her. "You're expecting trouble, aren't you?"

"You could say that, don't worry, everything is under control." He left to attend to his next client.

"I should go home" Sylvie whispered. "I've caused you too much trouble already."

"Listen to me, if Pierre tells you that everything is under control you'd better believe it, I have yet to meet anyone who is more in control."

"How long do you think I'll have to stay here?"

"That depends on how long it takes for one of your bridesmaids to call Ranalph and tell him what's happened. Hopefully, it will give time for Pierre to make a few calls."

"Who to?"

"Ranalph had better hope that it's to the police because, if he calls some heavies that he knows, it's going to get very ugly indeed."

I remember having been introduced to a couple of Pierre's high school friends who would be best described as measuring sub-zero on the social scale, commonly known as 'ferals'. They were nice enough to me, but I got the impression that this would disappear if I crossed them in any way.

It turned out that the heavies arrived first. A couple of them parked their Harleys in front of the salon and strolled in. I was surprised that the clients thought nothing of the new arrivals, it seemed as if this was something of a regular occurrence. "G'day you poof, who do you want us to beat up t'day?"

"There'll be no beating up unless the gentleman in question gives you no option. It seems as if he's been roughing up the gorgeous young thing that he's supposed to be marrying today, I think he should be taught a lesson on how to treat a lady." There was a subtle change in Pierre, he was less the Mardi Gras queen and more a straight businessman. If anyone noticed, nothing was said.

"That's something that we're experts at." The one I knew as 'Mongrel' said "When are you going to send your young lady out to the club-rooms so that she can get a good root?"

"She's perfectly satisfied with what she's getting, there's more to a relationship than sex."

"The offer's still open. Now, who is this bad boy?"

"Ranalph Jameson, he'll rock up soon in his Porsche."

"That useless prick. We won't even charge you for this service. By the way, the sheilas will be in next Saturday, I'm sure that you'll look after them."

"No probs mate," Pierre told them.

When Ranalph's Porsche arrived They were seated on their bikes. I don't know what he was thinking of when he asked the bikeys to move their bikes so he could park in front of the salon.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" The one who was using a large knife to clean the grease from under his fingernails asked.

"You know very well who I am."

"Do you have a name to go with your ego?"

"I'm Ranalph Jameson." He didn't see the need to add 'I'm famous.'

"Never heard of you. Now get back into your toy car and park somewhere else."

"Or what?"

"If you let your brain take over from your ego for a while you'd figure that out for yourself." He climbed from his bike and holding the knife out he placed the point on Ranalph's neck, just under his Adam's apple. He applied a gentle pressure and now had Ranalph's clear and undivided attention. While he held it, his mate quietly opened the door of the Porsche and slipped a plastic sandwich bag containing several smaller 'baggies' of a white powder under the passenger seat.

The first biker climbed back onto his bike. "I tell you what, my lady's going to need another half an hour to get tarted up for this show we're going to tonight, we're off, knock yourself out. Oh, and if we need to visit you for any reason, like you threatening harm on your lady or her family, you'll find yourself crapping in your Calvin Kleins." The quiet street was blasted awake by the sound of the two bikes being 'bagged up' as they left. It was now time for the police to arrive.

"What seems to be the problem?" The one with the three stripes asked Ranalph.

"No problem Sergeant, there were a couple of bikers here, but they left when they realised it was me."

"I see. And who might you be?"

"I'm . . . "

"Don't worry, I know who you are. Now, do you mind if we have a look in your car?"

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Acting on information Sir."

"Information, what information?"

"We received a tip-off that someone driving a car just like yours was seen dealing drugs here."

"What? I don't deal drugs. This must be some mistake."

The Constable had been doing a circuit of the Porsche, looking in the centre console, the glove-box and under the seats. "This doesn't look like a mistake now does it?"

"What? Where did you find that? I know nothing about any drugs. You must have planted this."

"What we have here Mister Jameson, is a commercial quantity of what we believe is a controlled substance. Sir, I'm arresting you on a charge of possession of and dealing in a controlled substance, you have the right to remain. . ."

"I know my rights."

"That's right, we've been here before, haven't we?"

"Yes, and the charges were dismissed." He took out his mobile phone and dialled a speed dial number. "Sid, yes it's me, look I've just been arrested on a trumped-up charge of drug possession and dealing, Can you get down to the police station and get me out?" There was some irate chatter from whoever he was speaking to. "I don't care if you are on the ninth hole, get your arse down to the police station, if you remember I'm getting married this afternoon."

"I wouldn't count on that if I were you, Sir." The Sergeant commented.

"We'll see about that, I know the Commissioner personally."

"Good for you, the word around the traps is that your fiance has called off the wedding and is in the process of taking out an injunction against you to keep you at a distance while we investigate her charge of assault."

"What the fuck are you talking about? She failed to mention that when I dropped her here an hour ago."

"A lot can happen in an hour. In the meantime you are under arrest, come with us. I would suggest that you get someone to collect your car because you'll have several parking tickets before you see the light of day again."

"You can't do this."

"I can and I will. Now don't make it any harder for yourself."

While the festivities were taking place Sylvie and I were stationed behind a screen beside the reception desk where we couldn't be seen from the street. "Why are you doing this, you don't even know me?"

"I've met others in your position, I want to help you as best that I can."

"What happens now?"

"We find you a nice quiet and safe place where you can stay until this is over. I have a spare bed if you would like to stay with me. He doesn't know where I live so you'll be safe."

"Would you? I mean I don't want to be an imposition."

"You won't, although you might get bored. Where do you work?"

The building where she worked would provide a degree of safety if we could arrange for her to have an escort coming and going. It was time to consult Pierre again.

"What is going to happen now?" Sylvie asked.

"Your ex-fiance will be cooling his heels in the local slammer until Daddy's lawyer bails him out, probably tomorrow, and then there will be a hearing on Monday where the charges will be read out and his plea of innocence will be heard. Pressure will be brought to bear by his lawyer, on instructions from his father who is a person of some importance in this world. Because he has been arrested and charged before for similar matters, including assaulting young ladies, he will probably be remanded in custody until his actual trial which, if Daddy has any say, will be sometime during the week."

"What about me?"

"You will stay out of the way until this dies down, then hopefully you can get on with your life," Pierre said as he came into the lunchroom.

"I'm curious, when you're in the salon working you come over as being gay, but here you're anything but."

"I will have to ask that you do not divulge that little secret on fear of death, not really, just don't tell anyone, promise?"

"I promise."

"Now I've got to go and earn a dollar or several. Tiff darling, can you help out in the salon seeing as you're not busy anymore?"

"Sure thing." I said, "Help yourself to coffee and whatever takes your fancy, we'll order pizza for lunch."

'You are a very surprising young lady" Pierre said as we went back into the salon, "I'm now pleased that we chose you for the job. This afternoon we'll have a chat about your future."

"Oh-oh, this sounds ominous."

"It's nothing bad, in fact, it could mean a whole new career for you."

"Now, you're really scaring me."

He did something so totally unexpected, he kissed me and not one of those twee air kisses that he throws around with gay abandon, if I didn't know better I'd think that he was coming on to me.

Pizza arrived and we adjourned to the lunchroom and, it being a Saturday and unless there were some last-minute jobs, we closed until Monday.-

"Sylvie," Pierre said, "We are going to have to be careful getting you out of here. I don't think that your future ex-father-in-law believed me this morning, it wouldn't surprise me if he had someone hanging about to follow us to see where we are taking you. Now, I'm going to leave you in the capable hands of Tiffany, she'll start off by being the designated decoy. She'll find a shopping mall car park, drive-in, drive out. If she's not followed, we'll send another car out, probably Blue, and if he's not followed we'll give her a call and she'll come back for you who will be waiting out back in the lane, in my car. I'm going to trust her not to prang it. She will take you to her place. Don't worry, if Jameson senior checks with Motor Vehicles he'll be given a wrong address," he looked at me to say without saying that he'd explain this little bit of information later. "Sometime later, I'll drive her car to her place and pick up mine."

"Why are you doing this for me? You're going to a lot of trouble for someone you hardly know."

"Damsel in distress Darling," He suddenly reverted to his gay persona. "You may bat for the other team but that doesn't mean that I can't help you. In the meantime you will stay with Tiffany at hers, it may not be up to the standard that you're used to, but it will suffice for the time being."

An hour and a half and many zigzaggy Kilometres later, I ushered Sylvie into my less than opulent abode, a two-bedroom apartment with an exciting view of house rooftops as far as the eye could see. I showed her to the room that will be hers for the duration of her stay. "I'm close enough to the same size as you, so feel free to avail yourself of my haute couture." I showed her my racks of non-designer clothes.

"I have to admit that I'm surprised at what has happened today," Sylvie said after taking a nibble at a biscuit (cookie) that I'd provided to go with the coffee. "This Pierre, he seems to be a man of many talents."

"Yeah, he even surprised me. I've seen snatches of this in the past but never to this extent. I'll have a lot of questions to ask when he gets here."

Speak of the devil, I heard a key turn in my front door. I remembered that I had used my emergency key that I carried around my neck and that he had used the one on my car key ring to let himself in. I started breathing again as he walked into the kitchen.

"Hello darlings, are you settled in Sylvie?"

"You can stop this gay bullshit for a start." She told him.

"Oh dear, now I'll have to kill you both." He 'glared' at me. "You've betrayed me, Tiff, you signed the official secrets act when we hired you and now I find that you've been spilling your guts to Sylvie who is not under the same secrecy obligations as you."

"I won't tell anyone, I promise." Sylvie was taking this by-play far too seriously.

"I know you won't because, if you do, I'll just have to throw you to Jameson's pack of wolves."

"You'll learn not to take Pierre too seriously. Having said that, when and if push comes to shove I'd trust him more than anyone else that I know."

"I feel the same way," Sylvie said.

"Okay . . " I paused for effect, "Spill. You are not who you pretend to be, are you?"

"Whatever are you implying?"

"This whole charade, the gay persona, the fact that you can call on the police at the drop of a hat and they come running, and then there's your bikey mates, not to put too fine a point on it, they seem so out of place yet no-one seems interested when they rock up."

"It'll be best that you don't know anything, and that goes for you Sylvie, I'm asking you to respect my privacy. When this is over I will tell you all."

"Is that a promise?" I asked.

"We have to follow this through to the end. It could get nasty if I know the Jamesons, if you thought Ranalph is bad, you wait until Daddy gets going It is not going to be pleasant."

"I can believe that," Sylvie said.

"Would that be because of what he's done to your father?"