Black Hair Dye

Who in the world wants to be in between and have brown hair in a middle shade? This is the fate that has fallen upon John Mark Carr; a 14-year-old in 2008 who wishes he had darker hair and paler skin. Goddamn the sun for colouring his face with freckles and to hell with nature for making him the most average of hair colours. He sees Nick Cave’s skeletal features and wispy black hair and moustache staring back at him from the poster his young uncle bought him and fools himself for just one second into thinking it’s his own reflection. But alas, puberty is still a very present concern with buds of hair popping up in odd places but none where he wants it most: on his face; poking out from under his mouth and telling the world that, yes indeed, he is a man.

Fourteen is far too old – or too young, if you care to look at it that way – to be following your mother into town to help with her weekly shopping. However, when you haven’t left the gates of your front drive in five days, any opportunity to jump ship for even a few brief hours is welcome. Unfortunately, John’s mother, Sheila, has a tendency to mutter observations about the callers on phone-in radio shows on the way into town. This annoys John for two reasons: he isn’t one for making chit-chat, least of all to his mother in public, and he’s trying to listen to the new Nine Inch Nails instrumental megalith on his Creative Zen mp3 player – a purchase which was a rare act of rebellion against conformity on John’s part by avoiding the monopolising iPod; though on this occasion he rather regrets his statement of individualism as the damn thing has been nothing but a curse since he got it. He did, however, leave his right ear free in the off chance that she might divulge some nugget of information that he may require, like “Meet you back here in 5 minutes”. Instead, she just asked, “What is yer man on about?”
“I don’t know or care” would be the honest response but John opted for silence knowing that his mother was really just talking to herself.

John did his best to manipulate the weekly shopping in his favour – which he did , to some extent, by convincing his mother that she deserves a treat or two in the form of a bag of jam donuts and a box of Magnum ice-creams – while taking on one of the sole responsibilities his mother affords him: pushing the shopping trolley. He views this as a pre-driving test with every tin of beans or old person he knocks over acting as a further obstacle to him eventually getting a lesson. He does, however, have a few years to work on this and knows that, when it comes down to it, pushing a shopping trolley has almost no relation to driving a car. Once the groceries were safely packed into their practical little Peugeot, he returned the trolley to redeem the two euro and his mother headed off to do her ‘personal’ shopping – pharmacy, ‘boutique’ – with the watch tap and “back here in 20 minutes” he’d been waiting for.

And there she was; beside the A-Z of Metal in their local Zavvi stood that little pocket book of all things goth and the subject of his most persistent crush: Melissa. Her flock of young pretenders and pale imitators make it nigh-on impossible to get within a yard of her. They gush and frown around her like maids around a princess, especially the male ones. John despises them; he hates them for liking Him – not God but the Bon Jovi of the new goth scene – and for giggling like perfectly happy teens – which is what they are, of course, underneath the layers of thick white make-up – but most of all he hates them for being able to get up close and personal with the one person in the world he would like to be alone in a room with. He saw two of them – at the same time it seemed – pick up a copy of the new Panic! album and talk over one another in exclamatory praise for it; they may as well be saying, “I love it!”, “No, I love it more!” Meanwhile, Melissa stood demurely to their right fixated by something else in the A-Z. John was risking his reputation by standing in the Rock/Pop section and therefore couldn’t make out what it was Melissa was staring at. He had only 10 minutes to get back to the car park but decided to wait for Melissa and her cloaked companions to exit the shop so he could investigate the P-section in Metal. He ran through the names of the artists in his head – Paramore, Pearl Jam, Peeping Tom – and stopped at Placebo, in the hope that their album Without You I’m Nothing was what caught her eye. It would be apt, he thought to himself, that an album with a title like that might be what brings them together.

“20 minutes”, said Sheila to John with her arms folded and a look of accusation on her face. He, meanwhile, closed the passenger door of her Peugeot and put his seatbelt on, hoping she would change the subject to something he could more easily ignore. Sheila finally shook her head, sighed and turned the keys in the ignition. “Need I ask what’s in the bag? Yet another CD we’ll be forced to listen to through your bedroom wall?” John merely shrugged and put a headphone in his left ear, knowing she had answered her own question; it was back to the one-way conversation he now realised he’s more comfortable with. Talking has never been something that John has enjoyed. In fact, he considers it a massive effort to utter a two-word sentence at the best of times. He often wonders what it is that people talk about and, despite eavesdropping on the school bus and listening to countless lines of dialogue in films and TV shows, he still has no idea how they do it. As a result, his cousins and neighbours refer to him as ‘odd’ or ‘shy’ which makes the pressure of talking all the greater. He desperately tries to think of things that are relevant to the person and situation in question but either comes up blank or misses his chance to speak as the subject has changed. He can feel all eyes on him when he does open his mouth, which makes him want to shut it again as soon as possible. It’s like every word that he might say will give some clue as to his intelligence or personality because they are so few and far between. And so goes the vicious circle of being quiet, where talking feels like a test rather than a way to express yourself.

There is only one way to listen to an album for the first time: in your room with the lights off and your headphones on. One song above all stood out for John: the penultimate track ‘Scared of Girls’. Of course, it isn’t the title that grabbed him but the heavy thuds of its intro. He is an admirer of loud sounds and this particular noise seemed to come out of nowhere. However, he couldn’t deny that the title sums up his relationship with females. How could he ever approach a girl like Melissa when he can’t even speak to the girls in his class? They walk in groups the width of the corridors around his school trading whispers and giggles that may as well be aimed at him for he believes that every one is. They signal each other with in-jokes in class despite being seats apart and openly discuss the pros and cons of Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp. If they have flaws, he thought, how can he possibly compete? Even groups of guys who call him ‘freak’ or ‘fag’ are less terrifying than these girls as the worst the guys will do is to throw him in the fountain or singe his hair; the girls meanwhile have the power to scar his body image for life by simply saying he has a crooked nose or banana feet – though, thankfully, the worst thing he has overheard a girl say about him so far is that his breath stinks, which is where Listerine came to his rescue.

It’s amazing how little a person can do in seven days when they don’t put their mind to it. Lying in until noon, then eating cereal and going on the internet. John’s avatar on Second Life is called Marcus Ansar; a six-foot rock star that is old enough to do all of the things that he isn’t. However, on this particular week John concocted a plan. At first he flirted with the idea of handing Melissa the CD or trying somehow to put it in her person. Realising that he would never have the guts to do either – as well as knowing there was no way to do them without being the willing victim of taunts from boys who wear nail varnish –, he decided to take a more removed approach. This is where Marcus came in. John did a Google search for Melissa Enright and came up with her Second Life pseudonym: Melissa Mimulus – has a certain ring to it (like a fungal infection). Then he tracked down her avatar in a rock club ironically called Quakers – though more likely inspired by the things that make tectonic plates shake rather than the cereal brand or religious group known for their long silences. He approached her – while trying to put his knowledge of her real life identity to the back of his mind – and asked if she’d like a drink. She held her glass up – with what looked like cranberry juice but was more likely red wine – and said, “No thanks. But I would like someone to talk to.” If only it was this easy in the real world, John thought to himself. He bought a bottle of beer and took a seat opposite Melissa in a booth with black leather seats. He tried so hard to avoid asking ‘that’ obvious question that people tend to lean on in these situations and instead made a banal comment. “This place is alright.” Melissa nodded and took a sip of her wine. It was make or break; either he said something that would catch her interest or she would log off and the chance was gone. “I have a CD for you.” Melissa remained silent for some time and then asked, “Who are you? How do you know me?” John composed himself knowing that any wrong move could have him cast as a stalker. “I’ve just seen you around town; I’m not a stalker.” A sure sign of a guilty man is one who too eagerly denies their guilt; if Melissa didn’t think of him as a stalker before, she certainly did now. “This is weird, I’m leaving.” As she was walking out she turned back around and said, “You know, I joined this to get away from people like you so thanks for ruining one of the few things I actually enjoy.” John was dumbfounded and had the kind of sick feeling in his stomach that you do when you know you’ve fucked up and there’s nothing you can do to reverse it. Thankfully, on this occasion, all was not lost: she didn’t actually know who he was. “So much for the internet”, he thought to himself, “it’s time to enter the real world.”

On most mornings John just relies on natural greasiness to darken his hair or, if it was washed recently – i.e. in the last two weeks – he would use gel that gave a wet look affect. But this wasn’t just another day in the life of John Mark Carr; it was the day that he would shed his skin and insecurities and take on the traits of his avatar. He got up an hour early and washed his hair while leaning over the bath – a full shower would’ve been too great a change. He then followed the instructions on the pack and applied the dye to the length of each strand of his hair. He hesitated about the eyebrows but then decided he might as well go all out; of course, that didn’t mean the other hairs in odd areas – the line had to be drawn somewhere and in this case it was drawn above the neckline. Once the dye had set and his hair was dry, John pensively descended the staircase, knowing that the slightest second look from his mother would inform him that the game was up. He hesitated, then ran back upstairs to get his hat and wait until his mother beeped the horn, minimising her chances of getting a good look at his hair and questioning why he was wearing a tea cosy on a sunny day. Of course, the latter was unavoidable but John just shrugged his shoulders and hoped that it was cast off as yet another example of his oddness, rather than being investigated further for its true source. Thankfully, a caller on the radio show brought up the problem of teenage delinquencies, which did prompt Sheila to ask if he was wearing the hat because he shaved his head. But she laughed and got caught up in the stories of graffiti and bad manners; by the time the issue of teenage pregnancy arose, she was fully engrossed.

On this occasion John didn’t follow his mother into the supermarket but instead made his way direct to the music shop. He did what he had to do and then waited for her to show up. He knew that so many things could go wrong but instead of igniting dread, the thought of this actually brought some relief. If he didn’t know for sure that she didn’t like him then he could continue to dream that she did but, if he knew for definite that she didn’t, the dream was dead. But, although he didn’t know it yet, there’s always another dream, another girl, another ambition of some sort just around the corner and out of reach; otherwise, what would be the point of going on; what would you get up for in the morning? John was camped out at the magazine rack at the back of the shop, pretending to read Kerrang!, yet nervously turning his head toward the metal section every five seconds to see if she’d arrived yet. Of course, if she did he’d know about it: her little pasty entourage would be squealing for attention all down the aisle. When she did arrive he panicked and put the magazine down. He was going to make a dash for TV DVD and then right out of the store, into his mother’s car and back home where he could hide behind his avatar. He would never again have to put himself out there in that most vulnerable position of being assessed by someone who knows that you like them. But he stopped in his tracks and stiffened, realising that his hand was in a fist; he was ready for this, “fuck it”. He snatched Rock Sound from the shelf and noticed that Trent Reznor was on the cover. Having something he actually wanted to read took his mind off of the event that was currently unfolding around him. Just as he finished reading the interview, he got a tap on the arm and turned his head left, half expecting something to blow up in his face. But it didn’t as the ‘it’ in question was Melissa, holding the copy of Without You I’m Nothing in her hands and with a smile on her face. “That was a lovely thing to do”, she said - little better than the “weird” his avatar had received. John struggled to pick the right words but her face encouraged rather than judged him. “I know it was a…strange way to get your attention.”
“No….it was nice. I mean…”
“I’m glad”, he said, interrupting her hesitation, “that you didn’t take it the wrong way. I just like you; I don’t follow you around or anything. Well, maybe here but…I come here anyway.”
“I know you’re not. I’ve seen you though and always hoped you’d come over.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Why don’t you hang out with us?”
“Do the others know about the CD?”
“No, though they look a little suspicious now that I’m talking to you.”
“Yeah, and if you walk out without paying they may stop you for shopliftin'!.”
“I thought that too until I noticed that you put the receipt in it; very smart. And I loved the note; as soon as I read it I looked up at the magazine stand and hoped it was someone I liked.”
“Were you disappointed?”
“No. Would you like to go for tea? We always go to Monet after here.”
“Yeah, sure. Though there’s one thing I have to do first.” John made to go and then Melissa said, “And I like your hair by the way. It’s very Trent!”
“Oh yeah? You noticed? Does it look stupid?” He had now asked more questions in one utterance than he had in nine years of education. Maybe his curiosity was awoken because something was at stake. “No, not at all. I like it. But you don’t need it.”
“Thanks. I have to go, so I’ll see you at Monet in 10 minutes?” he asked with his mouth creaking to one side in anticipation of a negative and the revelation that this exchange was just a cruel joke to entertain the murder of crows. “Yeah. We’ll be there in five just in case” she assured him while giving him the kind of demure smile and slight wave that made him fall for her from afar in the first place. John breathed a sigh and walked out of the shop while the gang of goons gave him a look of disdain that, combined with their panda eyes, made them look genuinely sad for the first time in their emo lives. Sheila was waiting in the car with her arms folded again. She sat up in her seat as he made to open the door and immediately detected the smile on his face, putting the change she saw entirely down to it and therefore missing the hair dye completely. “Is it ok if I stay in town for a while and get the bus home?” he asked. Sheila was taken aback. “Why? What would you be getting up to in town by yourself?”
“I wouldn’t be by myself; just with some friends in a coffee shop.” He said ‘some’ so his mother wouldn’t think it was a girl he was seeing; that would be a step too far in her eyes. “Oh, I see. Well, do you want some money? Let’s see, how much is tea…” she said, opening her purse.
“It’s ok, I have enough. I’ll get the 6 o’clock bus home, ok?” For once he was actually telling her what he was doing. “Sure, fine. Well, don’t miss it as the tea will be on the table, I mean dinner, and your Dad won’t want to come back into town to collect you.”
“I won’t”, he said and stepped out of the Peugeot shutting the door behind him. He waved to her as she put her seatbelt on and turned the keys. He was walking with some confidence; it wasn’t a total change but an indication that progress could be made; that her boy could grow up and put her mind at rest.