No Hair Mercy

You know the worst thing about being a performer? Getting your hair messed up under your mask. Like, stealing around in the shadows and dancing around is super fun, and black is so my colour, but we have to wear these dumb masks that make it, like…’oh, you spent an hour on your hair? Well, now it’s gonna be smashed under fabric until it’s all sweaty and ruined.’

Ugh, so unfair. I asked father if I could just have a mask that covers my face (still a makeup disaster, but whatever, compromise) and he said no because it was a hazard.

UGH. It’s bad enough that I have to get my hair done at a hair salon in the Melbourne CBD, all because it’s frowned upon to go to a nice hairdresser. Father said that being underneath a movement-restricting poncho while people use dance around your head is too vulnerable a position, and our rivals could make use of that weakness. Um, there’s a mirror. No one is going to be launching a sneak attack when you can see them. Gosh, it’s so dumb sometimes.

Still, the hairdressers in the middle of Melbourne are pretty good, so it’s not so bad that I have to go in there. Can get some shopping done as well, maybe my nails if I’m feeling up to it, and then there’s the stylist in the basement of David Jones if I’m running low on pretty dresses. I’m always running low on pretty clothing to be honest. Butter fingers.

Plus there’s a nice hairdresser in David Jones, so sometimes I make it a multi-faceted trip. Visit the stylist, do a bit of shopping, get my hair done at the end. Like, not before a performance though…that means that everything I get done is going to be ruined by the end of the night. One time I even got honey on it, and like, ick…no thanks. Most shampoos aren’t made for that.