I love my Mum and Vidal Sassoon.

http://www.andrewlucas.co.uk/

I am a lucky man.

I have the best mother, a wonderful wife, and four of the most amazing kids.

Throughout my working life I have been lucky too, not only in terms of success, but also in terms of the people I have been privileged to work with, and among those, few rank more highly than Vidal Sassoon.

As a small child, I was good at two things, creating colourful pictures, and telling tall stories, the kind of tales that some unimaginative people sometimes call lies.

As I grew up my talent for drawing and painting developed, I began to enjoy sculpture and design, and eventually, in my late teens, I discovered hairdressing. Unfortunately, I have to confess, that even approaching adulthood I found it a little to easy to spin the occasional yarn.

In 1976, when I was eighteen, I was lucky enough to secure a position as a trainee hairdresser within one of the world’s most famous hairdressing organisations. Yes, and without the need of even one tall story, through some trick of fate, some twist of life’s magical lemon, I landed a job with Vidal Sassoon. Both I and my mother were thrilled.

The first six months of my training were heaven, I had to work hard, but it soon became apparent that I had a natural flair, and as I was at last with kindred spirits, folk who knew, people who could not only see, but who would soon become the future, times were good.

Here I could drop names – Annie Humphreys – Christopher Brooker – there were always impressive creative people rushing around.

Now, I’d like to tell you that Vidal and I were close, you know, mates, but of course, we weren’t. In fact, during those first six months, I saw him only once, I accidentally spoke to him on the telephone, and I watched an interview he gave with Russell Harty on Thames TV.

Alas, the second six months in Bond Street were not so happy. I had been placed in the tutelage of a young but up-and-coming stylist who I shall call Petal, (that was not her name, but I can’t really call her Thorn can I?).

Petal was a cow and she made my life a misery, and at the end of my second six months, a year into the promised three, I started to take time off.

“I have a cold” – “The tube line was shut” – “I’ve had a tooth out” and worst of all “My mother is seriously ill”.  How could I have told such a dreadful lie about my lovely Mum?

It was a Tuesday morning. Vidal Sassoon himself was on the premises, home after spending time in the USA. Everyone was excited.  I had taken most of the previous week off on the pretence of looking after my sick parent. Petal was in a foul temper. I had been at work for an hour or so. I knew something was up, there were whisperings and glances, and then, while I was shampooing, the salon door opened and in walked my mother, smart and smiling and looking the picture of health.

I knew that I was in trouble of course, but also that I was quite highly thought of within the salon, and that despite the bullying attentions of ‘Petal’, I was actually doing rather well, so although I knew I had been found out and was bound to be severely reprimanded I clung on to hopes of keeping my job.

My mother, still smiling and looking dandy, sat down close to the brushed stainless steel reception desk; I tried not to catch her eye. When I’d finished shampooing, I was immediately summoned upstairs, to face my line manager I guessed. I heard voices. After a moment or two my mother joined me, I grinned at her sheepishly. Suddenly the door to the office that we were waiting outside opened, and standing in the doorway with my line manager, of all the people I didn’t want to see… was the headmaster, Vidal Sassoon.

That Tuesday morning for a full fifteen minutes, my mother and I were the sole focus of the busiest man I ever knew, Vidal Sassoon man sat with my line manager, my mother, and me, and talked with us - just us - for a full fifteen minutes.  I remember feeling both very small and naughty, but also somehow very special.

I learned many lessons during that conversation, some obvious – don’t tell lies – if you have a problem, talk about it – and bullies never win.  And I learned some less obvious lessons – no matter how important you become, always look after the kids  - If people are looking up to you, don’t let them down –– and your mum is always on your side.

I am a better boss thanks to Vidal Sassoon, and I think I am a better son too!

‘Vidal Sassoon, The Movie’ is set for general release shortly. The film shows the great mans creativity, his sense of fun, his passion, his drive, and his lust for life… but it is personal anecdotes likes this that demonstrate his very human side.

I love my Mum and Vidal Sassoon.

PS… Although I moved out of London to Camberley in Surrey soon after I kept my job for a while after Petal lost hers.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Cross-Dressed-Kill-Sensation-ebook/dp/B004WF3ZB0/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=digital-text&qid=1310130703&sr=8-1

I love Starbucks... yeh yeh yeh!

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I love Starbucks…

Earlier today, I decided to reward myself for a particularly generous gesture made to a friend, with a treat from Starbucks coffee shop, a tall skinny latté and large slice of lemon cake. I cannot pretend that this is an entirely rare occurrence because it isn’t; I like to reward my personal triumphs - however small they may be - with little treats. I must confess, that since Starbucks opened in my town, the treats have become easier to earn and more frequently awarded than they probably should have been. I used to try to excuse my weakness by pointing out that I always drank my latté’ skinny but then I started buying the cakes. The cakes were intended to be an occasional lunchtime indulgence. However, as I am being completely honest I will admit that, as I recall, only one slice of  lemon cake has ever made it past elevenses, and there are odd days when I’ve bought two slices and my latté was not so skinny.

In my town, Starbucks is small. I’ve seen larger Starbucks in airport lounges and on railway platforms. My Starbucks has two two-seater settees, one three-seater settee and five tall bentwood chairs and that is pretty much it. There is almost always a queue, and if the queue consists of more than six people then come rain or shine the seventh eighth and ninth queue outside. Therefore, as I walked along the High Street and approached my Starbucks, I was pissed off to see that there were at least ten people waiting in line. It wasn’t that it was raining or even cold, the sky was still blue and the air was still fresh, but queuing outside a shop, worse, queuing outside a takeaway first thing in the morning. Forget the time it takes, it’s just so demeaning, so bloody desperate. If Starbucks hadn’t been the only supplier of their particular lemon cake and coffee, I might have taken my four pounds an eighty-five pence and marched straight to the Columbian Organic Coffee Kingdom, or whatever it’s called.

Reluctantly, I took my place in line and wondered if Starbucks has a customer suggestion policy, they certainly should have. Just standing there for those few minutes I came up with half a dozen solutions to their more obvious deficiencies. Simple ideas ranging from employing only Japanese women who, in my experience, are always smiling, efficient, and wonderfully polite, to placing Starbucks kiosks outside Starbucks coffee shops so that we who are forced to queue can at least get a decent cup of coffee while we wait.

When my turn finally came, Colin, a young and sometimes surly lad with a country accent who has worked in the coffee shop for some time, smiled at me from behind the shiny Gaggia coffee machine while wiping down the froth-making-doobreedangler. Without any prompting at all (which quite took the wind from the wings of my intended whinge) Colin apologised for keeping me waiting so long and then asked me if I wanted my ‘usual’. I felt pretty cheesed off by his choice of words. Firstly, because I wanted Colin to be at his most arrogant and obnoxious best so that my irritation with the Starbuck Corporation could be properly vented; I enjoyed a good whinge, and after the time I’d spent queuing, I deserved a good whinge. Secondly, how dare he suggest that I have a ‘usual’, I am a spontaneous, imaginative person… I do not have ‘usuals’. Favourites maybe, even preferred items but not ‘usuals’, ‘usuals’ are for the hard of thinking regulars of the Old Nags Head.  

Unfortunately before I had the chance to make my objections clear to Colin he was already wrapping me a large slice of lemon cake and calling for a tall skinny latté’. I smiled back at him and said thank you.

I love Starbucks

Cross Dressed to Kill by Andrew Lucas

In ‘Cross Dressed to Kill’, one of my readers favourite situations is the demise of Jayne ‘the pain’ Clarke and the tale of her poor little mole….

As this was based on a true story that took place in the ‘Way In’ salon in Harrods over thirty years ago, here is what actually happened although I have used a little gloss.

 ‘A trim?’ I asked, nothing too time-consuming or controversial I hoped.

‘I need a complete restyle.’ She replied sharply, ‘I hate it as it is.’ Her bony fingers flicked at the greying fringe that I’d only cut a few weeks before. My heart sank; I knew it wouldn’t take her long to throw the blame fully in my face and get spiteful.

It started quickly.

‘These chairs are so uncomfortable.’ Jayne grumbled as soon as I sat her at a basin. ‘It’s about time you updated this place and thought of your customers for a change. It’s all very well charging us a fortune for a haircut, but when you don’t deliver a top notch service it’s no wonder so many of us are voting with our feet.’

Although she was just being a grumpy old bat, it was hard to argue with the woman. Just glancing from my place behind the basin, I could see that it was obvious to anyone who looked even a hairs-breadth beneath the surface that my salon was no longer doing so well. However, while there may have been a deal of truth in what she said, hearing it so nastily and at that particular stage of my life was more than just annoying.

Our bad start plummeted to a career-time low with almost the first snip of my scissors. After I’d shampooed the Dragons hair, I moved her to the chair in front of the tall floor to ceiling mirror. I’m sure that only to emphasise her point about the comfort of the seat by the basin, as soon as she sat down, she started fidgeting. First, she leaned this way, then she leaned that, getting her level was impossible. In an effort to keep her head still, I put my hand on her forehead and ran my comb through her hair without letting go. When I reached the back of her head, I divided the hair into two equal sections. As I exposed her scrawny neck, a familiar and knobbly friend popped out to see me. The mole on the edge of Jayne Clarke’s hairline was a particularly gruesome and awkward little blighter. Speckled brown and protruding a full centimetre like the Wicked Witch of the West’s wart, the thing had a habit of getting in my way.

‘Mind Moley.’ She’d say reflexively whenever I got near it.

‘Of course.’ I’d reply, struggling with a shudder. As if I needed warning.

Alas, with one hand on her forehead, and with her shoulders twitching, my confidence turned out to be premature and foolish.

The moles demise wasn’t deliberate… I swear. I pushed one piece of hair to the left, and another to the right, and then I aligned my scissors a full finger width below the wretched beast, but when I closed the blades together, everything went haywire.

My God it bled… my stomach churned.

Gathering my thoughts… and my stomach, as soon as I saw that ‘Moley’ had gone I shoved the towel that I’d wrapped around Jayne’s neck over the wound. I had a sudden moment of déjà-vu and a vision of a skewered Marjorie Warton flashed across the back of my eyelids. I shook the image away quickly and peeked under the towel. Thankfully, of the initial spurt of blood, only a small scarlet circle remained. Regardless, I pushed the towel back over it and glanced around for the mole. I looked on the floor immediately beneath my feet, on the back of the chair, in the towel, I couldn’t see it anywhere, and eventually I gave up.

‘What’s the matter?’ Jayne Clarke’s shrill voice suddenly piped up making me jump.

It was only when she spoke that I realized that she hadn’t seemed to notice what had happened. Apparently, the quick clean cut hadn’t actually hurt.

‘Nothing.’ I said swiftly, gulping at air to hide the lie. ‘I just dropped a clip that’s all.’

‘Amazing’, I thought, happily stunned that I seemed to have gotten away with it. I pulled the towel down lower and picked up a section of hair between my fingers well above the point of impact. I was about to snip again when as I opened the scissors my eyes met a revolting horror… Jayne Clarke’s mole was stuck to the edge of the top blade.

‘Bloody hell!’ I shrieked, leaping backwards and shaking my scissors as hard as I could. Alas, despite the good flick when I glanced at my scissors the mole hadn’t budged. I shook them again, and then again, and finally, on the third flick of my wrist, the wretched thing shot from the blade, flew over Jayne Clarke’s head, and landed with a small but audible splat on the mirror directly in front of her.

‘What on earth are you doing, you stupid man?’ She snapped …and then she saw ‘Moley’.

Like an over-fed maggot, wriggling its greeting from the shiniest apple, from where I was standing, reflected in the mirror the thing looked like it was growing out of her nose.

‘I seem to have had a bit of an accident.’ I said, suddenly feeling the craziest urge to grin. ‘I’ll just get you a Band-Aid.’

When I came back from the staffroom a minute or so later, with a small circular sticking plaster ready to dress Jayne Clarke’s wound, although still not sure whether to laugh or cry, but thank god, at least more in control of my face, I found the abominable twin in what seemed to be a state of shock. Her eyes glazed and frozen into a hard stare, she reached her hand to the back of her neck, and then mouthed in a hoarse whisper -

‘What the hell have you done?’

I’m not one for using bad language, but I know that in moments of extreme stress, for some people nothing else will do. In the past I’d found Jayne Clarke to be such a person and quite profane, and so naturally, knowing that I was in trouble and that she was bleeding and minus her mole, I braced myself for the onslaught.

When she opened her mouth, I turned my head to one side, screwed my face and made ready to wince.

 ‘Can you get on with my hair now please?’ Was all that she said - I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘I’d like to get to my solicitors office before he closes for the day.’ She finished.

I understood.

We didn’t talk much after that.

Despite the Dragons hair being thick and curly, her cut and blow dry took me under forty minutes. I was quite pleased with my creation, neat and to the point, it was just what she’d asked for and I’d been quicker than I had with her sister. I thought the turn of speed alone would have pleased her, even made up for my accident with ‘Moley’, alas, I was wrong.

‘I suppose you think that’s good enough.’ She said, turning up the corner of her mouth and then flicking at her hair with the backs of her fingers. ‘I could have done better with it myself.’

I didn’t get too many complaints about the quality of my hairdressing in those days; my temper perhaps, but not my work. So when Jayne Clarke opened up, although I knew she was just after a free haircut, it felt like a stab in the back.

 ‘What?’ I said, feeling the flush of anger rising in my cheeks, the words ‘silk purse’ and ‘sow’s ear’ leaping swiftly to mind.

‘I don’t like it… do it again… and not so puffy this time.’ She demanded with a sneer.

I blow dried Jayne Clarkes hair three times in all that afternoon and still she wasn’t happy. By the time I’d finished my third attempt at crusty-customer satisfaction, Jayne’s hair was behaving like a Dandelion in a breeze, and I was hot and sticky, and feeling very very bothered.

‘Straightening irons.’ She snapped at me just when I thought I’d finished at last, and then she added sarcastically to herself as an aside under her breath. ‘I doubt if he even knows what they are?’

I didn’t answer her, but went straight to the small cupboard beside the nearest basin and took out a pair of one and three quarter inch GHDs. The irons were heavy and tactile; they felt good in my hand. I ran my fingers over the smooth organic contours of the moulding and stepped back to the mirror.

‘Oh my god!’ She said, sneering at me again. ‘You did make it into the twenty first century after all. Now tell me… do you know how to use them?’ Then her face curled itself around her pointy nose, her eyes sank, and a slither of a sarcastic smile escaped her lips.

I gripped the heavy straightening irons firmly as if holding a squash racket and then I wacked Jayne bloody Clarke as hard as I could across the back of her head.

The Dragon went down like a sack of spuds.

One-nil, Saint George…

Whoops.

Okay, Okay, it didn’t end quite like that.

Really, after I’d straightened the dragons’ hair she grunted a muted approval and eventually she left the salon. Although I never saw the dreadful woman again, and in that I counted myself lucky, I did get a letter from her solicitor. Needless to say, I sent it straight to my insurance company and I’ve never heard a peep since. Fiction is much more fun…