Picture Imperfect - By Nicola Yeager Page 0,37
too, so even though he always asks what I want, I always leave it to him in the end.
I did, though, have something in mind this time. After trying on my posh dress and the heels, I decided that my general look was so sleek that I might go for something shorter than my usual medium length locks. As I perused myself in the mirror, everything seemed to blend in together, apart from my hair.
What I actually have in mind is the kind of short style that Kristin, my New Zealander former colleague, was able to get away with. I describe her hair to Gavin, who stops me in mid description.
‘I know exactly what you mean. It’s what I’d have done to you months ago. I’m going to turn you into a severe, brutal, dominatrix. By the time I’ve finished with you, you’re going to have to take a black leather riding crop to this opening of yours. Don’t say another word.’
Forty minutes later, I look at myself in the mirror and can hardly believe it’s me. It’s much shorter than I’ve ever had it in my life, but is cut and styled in such a way that it looks windblown and tousled; even slightly punky. I turn my head from left to right and I’m amazed at how my features have changed. My cheekbones, which have always been there (obviously), are now a major feature of my face. It’s as if the hairstyle is pointing them out, accentuating them. Strangely, my mouth also looks fuller and my eyes look bigger. It’s obvious that Gavin is in league with the devil.
‘That’s fantastic, Gavin. It – it doesn’t look like me!’
Gavin laughs as he watches me turn my head at different angles, admiring myself. He holds a mirror behind me so I can see the back of my head. The hair is very, very short there and has been savagely razored into submission, as Gavin would no doubt say. It’s something that I would never have asked a hair stylist to do in a million years, but it works beautifully.
When I’ve paid, I reach into my handbag and pull out a couple of tickets for my show.
‘These are for you. I’ll only be there between four and eight, apparently, but you can pop in whenever you like.’
Gavin looks shocked and takes the tickets. ‘I’ve never been to one of these before. Who knows – I may even buy something!’
‘There’ll be lots of Champagne and nibbles, so enjoy yourself.’
‘I’ll look forward to it, darling. Thanks ever so much. Don’t forget to break a leg, or whatever it is you arty types do.’
‘I won’t. And thank you, Gavin. My hair looks fab.’
He laughs. ‘You can whip me any day, dear.’
I eat quite a big lunch; I make myself a huge bowl of pasta, with pancetta, porcini mushrooms and a delish cheese sauce, which I made myself. I don’t usually pig out for lunch like this, but I thought it was a good idea as I’m going to be drinking alcohol in a few hours and don’t want to get completely sloshed at my own debut show.
After an hour or so posing in the mirror in my smart new clothes, I order a cab and slip into my raincoat when it finally arrives. I don’t want the cab driver having a free perve at my expense; it’s bad enough having to tip. No one ever tips me!
When I arrive at the gallery, there are already about a dozen people milling around. The gallery looks about the size of a small shop from the outside, but there are two big spaces inside, one at the front and a bigger one at the back. There’s a placard in the window with my name on it, but nothing else. Things like this are often by word of mouth or personal invitation, so they don’t need to make a big promotional fuss.
No one looks at me as I slip inside, which is hardly surprising as they don’t know what I look like. I pick up a glass of Champagne, and just as I’m about to take a sip, Rhoda appears out of nowhere and frog marches me into the ladies.
‘OK. Get that coat off. Let’s have a look at you.’
I slip my raincoat off and hand it to Rhoda, who throws it into a nearby sink. She circles around me, looking me up and down, and then rummages in her handbag, producing a packet of wipes and one