JG's Pages for Poets  ( and the occasional prose)

Page No S13

PIGS CAN FLY

 by Bill Melrose

Hazel has brought some much-needed sophistication to the salon.  She slides the comb parallel to the scalp and snips off the bits sticking through the teeth with fine pointed scissors.  Joe’s lads always use the electric trimmer as an all purpose mower and shaper.  They even dab in the points of the machine at right angles to the skin to make sideburns look like hourglasses.

            “Would you like some conditioner?” asks Hazel.

I am sitting in Joe Connelly’s, the Garston hairdresser, and Hazel is swaying over me like a poor man’s Marilyn Monroe.  She’s the one I told you about, who spent her redundancy money from British Airways getting whatever qualification you have to get to become a hairdresser.

I don’t know the answer to her question.  It’s not the sort of thing I usually get asked when I go to Joe’s.  I’ve already got my answer worked out for why the team isn’t scoring any goals, which is the sort of question you can rely on nine times out of ten. 

            “What does a conditioner do?” I ask.  Her soft sensitive fingers are already making the remaining strands of my hair tingle.

            “Well, your hair’s not all that thick on the ground and a conditioner might stimulate a bit more growth.”

            “That’s where you’re wrong.  My hair never stops growing.  The only trouble is that it grows inwardly into the scalp and comes out in the nostrils and ears.  Can you get the conditioner as a nasal spray?”

            “No.”

            “Then you’ll just have to do without your commission.”

            “Very funny.  Just watch your step or this is liable to slip.”

She is beating the hell out of a leather belt with a cut throat razor.

            “Was that how you used to deal with awkward customers when you were an  air-hostess?”

“There was the odd throat I felt like slitting.  Like the woman with the baby when I was on the South African run.  Did I tell you about that?”

I shake my head and nearly lose an ear. 

It’s probably some trick of the light reflecting through the dirty window, but I can see Hazel in the mirror wearing her British Airways blue two-piece.   Her blonde hair is pinned up under her hat.

            “I was doing first class from Capetown  to Heathrow and there was this Afrikaner woman with a small baby.  She had a face like one of President Botha’s Security Police.”

“As pretty as that?” 

“Certainly was.  Anyway, the baby starts to cry and Lady Muck lifts her eyes from Harper’s Bazaar and tells me to do something with the baby.  ‘Like what?’ I say.  ‘I don’t know.  Whatever people do to quieten babies.  Walk it up and down.  Pat its back.  Turn it upside down.  Give it some brandy.  Just get on with it.  My servants at home don’t ask such stupid questions and they’re only half your age.’  I’m beginning to dislike this woman.”

“Seems a natural sort of reaction.”

“Then half an hour later she calls me over again and tells me to feed the baby.”

“What did you say?”

“I tell her that the tablets the Dr. had given me has dried up all my milk.”

“Good answer.”

“Not good enough.  She points to a tin of Ostermilk in her hand luggage and then tells me to bring her a gin and tonic when I have finished because she’s feeling worn out.  I’m blazing by this time.  There’s a posset stain on my tunic and I’m giving poor Melinda an earful.

“Melinda?”

“My friend from economy.  She’s not in the least surprised.  She was born in Soweto and knows the type.  As I say, I’m pouring out my rage to Melinda over a quick coffee when the woman’s light goes on again.  A minute later I’m back in our pokey galley carrying the snivelling baby.  I’m really seething.  ‘Do you know what she’s just done?  That bitch has just ordered me to change her baby - not even asked, ordered.’  ‘She’s not worth getting upset about,’ says Melinda.  ‘Here give me the baby.  So Her Ladyship wants the little Boer changed, does she?  There’s a friend of mine travelling in economy.  She’ll do it for you.’  And off goes Melinda and baby.  She comes back a couple of minutes later with a tiny black piccaninny.  ‘If she still wants it changing,’ says Melinda, ‘give her this one.’

“And did you?” I ask.

“Yes,” says Hazel.

I sit there and look through the grimy window at the Garston gasometer, with Paddy Doyle’s scrapyard in front, wondering if there’s an ounce of truth in the story.  Hazel is spraying some cold watery stuff on the back of my head.

            “What’s that for?”

            “There are four or five hairs there that won’t sit down”

            “They don’t need to sit down.  They’re in very good condition.”

            “Are you still going on about that?”

            “Not really.”

            “Do you want your eyebrows doing?”

I don’t usually bother but then again I don’t usual get the option of having Hazel’s face close to mine.

            “Yes, please.  The boys always do them.”

I try to keep Hazel talking because she has a sexy voice and anyway, I’m still curious. 

            “What did that woman say?”

            “When?”

            “When you gave her the other baby.”

            “Nothing.  She didn’t notice the difference.”

“Some people really do behave like pigs, don’t they?”

            “Tell me about it,” says Hazel.  “I’ve had passengers who ate like pigs and I’ve had some who snored like pigs.  As a matter of fact, I once had a real live pig on board when I was with Delta Airlines.”

            “I thought you worked for B.A.”

            “It’s a long story.  I’ll tell you about it sometime.  I was on a Boeing 757 doing the Seattle - Philadelphia run and there lying on the floor between the front seat and the bulkhead was two hundred pounds of potential bacon slices.  It was quiet as a mouse, though obviously a bit bigger.”

            “How on earth did it get on board?”

            “The owner brought it.  She had a doctor’s note.”

            “Pull the other one.”

            “No.  I’m not kidding.  I read the note.  It said the pig was a therapeutic service animal.”

            “What the hell does that mean.”

            “It means it can ride in an aircraft cabin because it has been ‘trained to perform specific functions by an accredited organisation.’  The purser looked up the American Air Carriers Access Act.”

            “You mean it was a sort of Guide Pig for the Blind?”

            “Possibly.  The woman who had it on a lead might have got separation anxiety or air rage or something if she’d left it behind.  Or maybe its specific function was to provide pork chops in the future.  I don’t know.”

            “How did it behave?”

            “It was brilliant.  It just lay quietly and didn’t bark once.”

            “You mean oink.”

            “Well, oink, then.  It was one of the best passengers I’ve ever had.  It didn’t even complain about the in-flight video.”

One of these days I’m going to sort out this mirror business.  You have to take your glasses off to have your haircut and they’re still in your inside pocket when they hold up the mirror and all you can see is a vague blur where the back of your neck should be.  That’s fine, you say, and for all you can see there may be a ponytail there.

            “That’s fine, Hazel.  Thanks.  See you in about a month for the next instalment.”

            “Remind me to tell you about that charter flight when the Captain announced that we’d be landing in ten minutes and that it was a lovely day in Palma with the sun shining and the temperature 82 degrees Fahrenheit, that’s just under 28 Centigrade.”

            “What’s wrong with that?”

            “We were supposed to be going to Malaga.”     

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