Skip to main content

Rinse & Repeat

Festivals serve up more than bands, martinis in mugs and craft beers in custom-designed bottles, so in the spirit of risk-taking and surrender, I decided to submit myself to an ‘artistic experience’ in a silent hair salon at last year's Mona Foma festival. But to what was I surrendering? And why?

The Terhairium offered an indulgent immersion, leaving the customer at the hands of the silent hair stylist in a foliage-filled caravan. There would be no speaking and no mirrors. Limited stipulations could be given in writing before the appointment, the example given being: ‘no shorter than the jawline’. I wrote: ’no fringe please’, then, a bit more insistent: ‘no more than a trim, really’, and finished with a somewhat more desperate plea: ‘I don’t like hair around my face!’ 
The Terhairium. Image supplied by Chelsea de Main
But I began to wonder: what could happen to me, while I’m in there, voiceless, in the stylist’s hands? I liked my shaggy, sea-stained locks, the twisted blonde, brown and grey strands like seaweed around my sandy face. I could come out looking ‘styled’ or with straight hair or with an assymetrical bob or, or, or…

Why would I surrender myself to strangers?

It’s true that my hair did need a trim, but it was the indulgence of locking myself away which was a huge part of the Terhairium’s appeal. After more than seventeen years of parenting, and over twenty-five years with a partner, the chance to be answerable to noone, well, it seemed priceless. Noone could talk to me. Noone could get to me, except for um, the stylist. In a vivid flashback, I recalled how much I enjoyed (enjoyed?) my MRI brain scan experience. Sure, the idea was scary, the concept claustrophobic, but then there was the escape, oh the escape: the cubicle of my own, the disposable slippers, the soft bathrobe, the inevitable slide away from faces, the enforced solitude, just me, some music and a chorus of clunking, thumping magnets. Ah, the serenity...

But, back to my flight of follicular folly. The Terhairium was billed as an ‘installation-artwork-hairdressing-concept.’ Chelsea de Main, stylist and owner of Eye Am Hair, wanted to “disrupt the traditional hair salon model.” She created her salon in a copper-clad caravan in 2015. “I believe hairdressing can be both art and a form of healing,” she says. “As a salon...it’s a space for the soul to be replenished.”
I fronted up for my appointment. The door opened and I was in the caravan, amongst the cool blue-green of tiles, piped soundtrack of birds and falling water, draped tentacles of creepers and sly succulents on edges and borders. There were two basins, two chairs and two hair artists. The caravan moved on its mounts, shifting as each hairdresser walked around it.


Inside 'The Terhairium'. Image supplied by Chelsea de Main

A glass filled with golden red liquid was placed beside me with a nod and a smile. ‘Is this poison!?’ my mind analysed. I felt like Alice, in the looking glass...but there were no mirrors here. What if it was all part of the surrender? Rules said I could not speak, but I couldn't help gesturing: ‘drink?’ She nodded, and I gulped in the liquid of cool fruit and herbs. 

Then, all I could do was sit and breathe, obey instructions and open the senses. 

In chemical jars she mixed potions beside me, a slow dribble of elixirs mixed and swirled. It was put aside, to brew. Anticipation sparked and flared, as the head massage began. No talking. No need to think, just feel. Time seemed endless. The fan blew the maiden hair fern, while outside, far away from me in the heat, punters drank beers and bands belted out their tunes. Then came the tumbler of potion, my head resting back over the basin, the liquid like honey, chilled, oh so chilled. So cold it felt warm. So warm it felt cold. My senses surrendered to the bathing of follicles. From her leather belt, the stylist drew scissors, flashes of acquamarine, snip, snip, snip. Comb. Pulled straight and snipped. Pulled straight and snipped. Pulled straight and snipped. Pulled straight...

The experience went for an hour, and in that time, I felt free. Free to make no choices, say no words, give no directions. I trusted. And hoped. And emerged, golden silky smooth, hair simply sculpted, smelling so fresh, so good, that I would not wash my hair for a week.

I took my hair bathed in flowers back across Bass Strait, and dunked it in the ocean off Port Phillip Heads. Salt water mixed with flowers, the perfume remaining after my immersion. For such a haircut I wish I could fly back across that ocean, back to Tasmania, back to the Terhairium, to escape from myself once more. To place myself within those caravan windows again, and to feel the surrender; to drink the red gold elixir and be bathed in the chilled potion. To feel invisible, and yet be seen. Rinse and repeat.

'The Terhairium', in situ at Mona Foma 2019 (c) Anna Sublet
Additional information:

Chelsea de Main, stylist and owner of Eye Am Hair, wanted to “disrupt the traditional hair salon model.” She created her salon in a copper-clad caravan in 2015. “I believe hairdressing can be both art and a form of healing,” she says. 

Of the soundtrack, Chelsea says, “Yes, there was birds, rain & nature. The sound installation was a composed piece of natural soundscape environments from around the world and ambient vocal music created by my partner, Ashley Bartholomew.” 

The Eye Am Hair Caravan operates in Red Square, Macquarie Point, Hobart, and offers silent sessions on certain nights. 

 Post Covid-19, limited services are now available.

 Also published on Medium

(c) Anna Sublet, 2020
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A morning too early, a morning too late

Sensing  the  future It was our last morning in New York City. It was a morning too early to be leaving, and as it turned out, a morning too late. Dad was on his final lap of life, and we were making a dash home to cheer him along as he hit the home straight .  I went down to breakfast with a heavy heart. The bar was buzzing. Halloween scenes were already playing out in the streets. A kind waiter asked me 'have you got your costume sorted for tonight?' To which I stumbled, 'no...I I I have to go home. My dad's sick...' and began to cry. The dear boy was shocked, 'Oh, I'm so sooorreeee. Do you wanna hug?' I could barely breathe. NO, I managed. I ate cereal alone, and had grapefruit juice. Dad loved grapefruit. I packed the last of my things, and stumbled out through the lobby, past glamorous girls in fabulous costumes. Mark had already run off to explore the neighbourhood after checking out of the hotel early. It didn't seem...
5 comments
Read more

Coming of Age

The bricks were always cold underneath my bum. Cold and hard. I could feel their sharp edges. In the nights we sat and talked, my brother and I and the neighbourhood boys. The smells of sour smoke and saliva on one, body odour on another, and menace on the other. The fluorescent globes hummed from the train station platform across the road, and the street lights pooled at the corner. Inside was out of bounds to these boys, so we met on our side stairs. The frosted glass door between us and our home. These were the kids we didn’t trust, the boys from the wrong side of the tracks. Where were their parents? Absent fathers, unsighted mothers, these boys roamed the streets and set me on edge. The attraction to the dirt, to the smell of one’s mouth...I can still feel it now. It was an urge, but not an infatuation.  The hearts of these boys remained hidden. It was as if they walked in costumes, played their parts, and kept their distance. One day, my mum greeted me at...
4 comments
Read more

Shadow of the Oaks

As soon as I saw it, I wished I hadn't. There was something deadly ominous about the darkened room. Bare wood floors, panelled wood walls, slices of weak light coming in through the long, autumnal windows. Funereal. I could hardly process it.  A sign. The room was empty, the service cancelled, the food and drink all dried up. Finished.  It was our last day in New York, and we had returned to the Oak Room at The Plaza to toast Dad with a negroni. At this stage, when we knew he was fading, e ach negroni seemed like a communion .  The Plaza was one of the places him and mum had honeymooned. The last time we'd been in NYC, with kids in tow, we had blown a couple of hundred dollars on fancy burgers and lemonades for the kids, and champagne and wine with dinner for us. Spending mum and dad's trip gift money.  That was nearly 5 years earlier. We had taken our girl to look for Eloise , the little literary inhabitant of the Plaza...
4 comments
Read more