Eight and a half years ago I was strutting my stuff down Oxford Street Paddington. A person on the pavement handed me a pamphlet. These days I don’t accept random pamphlets thrust at me on the street. I have since refined a technique whereby I keep my hands close to my side and don’t make eye contact as the leaflet heads in my direction. But I wasn’t so worldly back then.

 

I stopped and looked down at it, read “Tony & Guy”. I knew of them. My flatmate Mimi used to treat herself to a haircut there twice a year… they were known for their opulence. “How much for a haircut?” I asked. “A normal cut is 55 dollars”. I handed back the pamphlet and told him “sorry, I’m not that vain”.

 

Its 12.15pm on a Monday in 2009 and I am swivelling left then right in my chair at Tony & Guy, trying desperately not to look at myself in the mirror. Does anyone else find sitting in front of a mirror for an hour uncomfortable… confronting even? I’m still not vain, I just appreciate a quality colour and cut now. And I don’t look at the $150 I will spend today as a weeks worth of sleeps and eats in Thailand (or a days expenses in London), like I did back then.

 

And I now realise that the $150 is not just for the great hair colour and cut, it’s for the atmosphere too. The complimentary coffee, thumping funky music, and the very cool good looking cats that work there. And today I still believe the $150 is well spent, even if the apprentice almost poured boiling green tea in my lap, the tunes were a little sedate (The Presets were promptly turned off in favour of some seriously sedate pop) and the “Stylist” with the brightly coloured cliché locks is a little dowdy even daggy. For at Tony & Guy there is one element that outstrips all other attempts at copying their sumptuous salon… they know when not to talk.

 

During the five minute monologue on how my colour would turn out today, I sit there eyes glazed, smiling and nodding. I’m not exactly baffled by science but more so bored by it. Indifferent. Who cares, its hair. If they fuck it up it will grow back. Colour sorted (seriously how many tones of brown can there be?) and the “Colourist” goes about his business. I don’t feel like talking. Why would I at the moment, my story is so bloody boring, I’m like a stay-at-home Mum who only ever wants to talk about her precious babies (in my case cats). There is no need for chit chat today, I give no notion of wanting to either. The “Colourist” picks up on this vibe and obliges… hence, I go to Tony & Guy.

 

It’s a skill the extroverted learn with age, but shy people are born with it. Knowing when not to talk has never been one of my finer qualities but I have acquired an unabashed awareness of this in terms of public etiquette and general interactions of the unnecessary kind. It is not a skill that can be taught as it revolves around intuition. I will often talk but only after being invigorated by a vibe. A vibe that informs you that the stranger next to you has an interesting story to tell. The “Colourist” didn’t.

 

The most common environs where we don’t need to talk are planes, trains, and automobiles. As an example of the latter, I was one time on a sufficiently bad bus trip from Sydney to Mackay, bad already thanks to sitting in the one spot for so long combined with an undiagnosed case of ADD. But when the girl in the seat next to be spoke nonstop for the first four hours I was well and truly ready to ride on the roof, that failing… throw myself in front of the bus.

 

But planes are much worse. Particularly when you have the window seat and the person next to you stares out of it for the entire flight (you know that feeling that someone is staring at you… try that on for three hours). Never speak first. Except of course if you find yourself in a situation like I did recently on a flight from Brisbane to Newcastle. That well made-up woman next to me certainly had a story to tell. I stuck with my anti conversation crusade for an hour but it wasn’t long before she revealed that her husband of ten years had just found out that she’s been having an affair for the last eight years. Her ex boyfriend used to partake in beastiality (plenty of details were revealed with some gentle probing) and she was on her way to the foreshore for a hen’s night. That’s just a snippet of the info delivered in the last 20 minutes of the flight. I wished I had of spoken sooner.

 

The bonus in talking is finding an interesting yarn but international flights are far more hazardous than domestic as you are risking up to 24 hours of tortuous talk. My trip last year to London saw me endure tedious attempts at communication with an Israeli backpacker for much of the first part of the flight. By the time we arrived at Bangkok he had declared everlasting love (that’s funny, I thought… that’s the first thing I’ve understood in the last eight hours). Apparently sitting next to him was fate, but he disembarked at Bangkok and I was glad to see the back of him.

 

But imagine those poor sods stuck next to Martin Bryant for 24 hours. Yes, Australia’s (and the worlds… he still holds the record) most outstanding mass murderer took quite a few trips overseas before heading to Port Arthur. He didn’t do much sightseeing when he arrived at his destination though, nor did he really enjoy it, it was the flying that he liked the most. Or more precisely the unfortunate souls sitting next to him on the plane, the only time in his sorry life that he ever got to communicate with other people. They should never have made eye contact.

 

The colour has been left to set for 20 minutes, it is washed out and I’m sitting in anticipation of the cut (trying not to look at myself in the mirror… but where else to look?). I have survived the last 40 minutes of over-excited conversation about an imminent wedding spoken in an octave above necessary. I’m confident that today’s $150 visit will buy me just 20 minutes more peace while my locks are chopped. Sure the “Stylist” (they used to be hairdressers) crapped on about the incumbents imagined matrimonial bliss, but she is sure to recognise that I have no desire for chit chat… not even to pass the time of day.

 

Stylist - (holding Wendy’s head in front of the mirror) “OK lets make you beautiful”

… is she subtly implying I’m ugly?…

Wendy - (raises eyebrows, forces a smile)

Stylist - “so how’s your day been?”

Wendy - “yeah, good thanks”

PAUSE

Stylist - “so did you get the day off work?”

Wendy - fuck, here we go “no, I’m actually not working “

Stylist - “oh”

PAUSE

Stylist - “so do you live nearby?”

Wendy - “I’m house-sitting for my folks in Singleton at the moment”

Stylist - “do you like it there?”

Wendy - “no”

… am I really paying $150 to force unwanted conversation here… and now I’m starting to feel rude like I need to ask the “Stylist” some questions.

PAUSE

Stylist - “so did you come down especially for this appointment today?”

Wendy - “no… umm… (hesitates)… I have another appointment this afternoon”

PAUSE

Stylist - “is there pets you have to look after for your Mum and Dad?”

Wendy - “Yes, well actually she was once my cat… but I have two other cats as well now. They are strays… blah blah blah”

 

If the “Stylist” was any smarter I would have to conclude that her objective was achieved. I start talking… and get to sound like a boring git to everyone else who’s in for the chop.

 

Here are some other occasions when it’s best not to talk:

 

1) When you accidently damage someone else’s property (especially if it was potentially already broken). For example; when I opened the window of my hotel room in Koh Phi Phi Thailand to take in the magnificent view… and the entire window fell out of the wall and crashed on the tin roof below.

 

2) When for once in your life you rip someone else off (especially if it’s inadvertent). For example; the time I cancelled my lounge suite purchase from Fantastic Furniture and was refunded $2193 not $1293.

 

3) When you don’t have anything intelligent to say (no example from me here as I always have something intelligent to say…!).

 

“I know what I believe. I will continue to articulate what I believe and what I believe — I believe what I believe is right.” George Bush

 

“I make Jessica Simpson look like a rock scientist.” Tara Reid

(scary in more ways than one!)