OPINION: Salon selective: lessons from my mother
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OPINION: Salon selective: lessons from my mother

There are some things, Michelle Rosenberg learned from her dear mum, that are simply NOT done.

Michelle and HRH.
Michelle and HRH.

I have learned many things from my mother.

Some, I wish I had not.

But let us begin with the useful ones, those that did not necessitate my early years of therapy.

The importance of a ‘thank you’ letter, phone-call AND text. Any less is disrespectful. Any more is ‘brown-nosing’, and ‘no-one likes a brown-noser, Michelle’.

Having enough smoked salmon stocked in the freezer so that, in case armageddon strikes, and it strikes north-west London specifically, thus rendering Louis Mann immobile, our culinary traditions will endure.

Michelle Rosenberg

That if one is to buy, one must buy in bulk. (see: Costco).

If making a dinner party for 10, cater for 35. (see: Costco).

If one is to drink, it should be Pinot Grigio. Rosé, alas is tres passé.

That, even if I should win the Nobel Prize for literature AND become a brain surgeon, my younger brother would still be the ‘favourite child’. She knows it. He knows it. And now, you know it.

Don’t put cashmere in the tumble dryer. (To my mother’s eternal disappointment, I have yet to own any cashmere. My teenager daughters, however, have inherited all the cashmere that has, as per above, been inadvertently placed in aforementioned tumble dryer).

Do have your own bank account. Clean your silver regularly. Have two good sets of crockery. And that, with the right attitude and more than a soupçon of chutpzah, it is entirely possible to return a men’s bespoke three-piece suit to a retailer three years after you have purchased it, in exchange for a heartfelt apology, full refund AND vouchers. My mother remains an urban legend for this particular episode.

(She also told me I’d get the children I deserved, but I digress).

My mother, known in close circles simply as ‘HRH’, recently impressed upon me the importance of friendships. Over scrambled eggs and sourdough (Waitrose), she stressed how essential it was that at least one girlfriend could be relied on to bring a seriously big tea urn to a shiva.

It was then that she paused.

It was clearly an emotional moment.

HRH-approved images.

Clearing her throat and settling down with her third Rombouts coffee, in hushed tones, she told me the story of the ‘salon stealer’. My father, having apparently heard it many, many times before, left the room to discuss the recent performance of Spurs with my nephew.

Now, I tell you this story as it was told to me. And, as it was told to her. And that day, I learned that amongst Jewish women, there is a line that should never be crossed.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present the case of the ‘weekend hairdressing appointment’.

I know. It sounds frivolous. But the look of anguish. The sense of betrayal.

Of course, it hadn’t happened to my mother, but as she was at pains to emphasize, it could have. At any time.

My mother and all her friends (to this day, known as my ‘aunties’) have long-standing hair appointments. I remember there being a strict hierarchy at the plush salon run by the doyenne who had cut my hair since I had any.

First client ‘in’ with the salon received the prized early weekend appointment. This obviously gave you a timely advantage over everyone else if you were all attending the same barmitzvah/wedding/anniversary/bris (delete as appropriate).

It also established a pecking order that was to be respected. There was an order to these appointments, based on the longevity of your relationship with the coiffeur in chief.

These bookings were solemnly adhered to. They were not missed. They were not swapped. They were never questioned. It was an unspoken understanding. What happens in the salon, stays in the salon.

The ‘earlies’ would saunter out, nary a highlighted hair out of place, as the ‘laters’ would rush in, fitting in a ‘wash and blow’ with just minutes to spare in between other engagements.

As she recalls, it was the weekend before the *Bernstein wedding and the salon was fully booked. Wall to wall cashmere and de-caf.

Alas, the receptionist was off sick. A temp was in place. And, in a moment that the distraught owner later described to the lawyers as ‘sheer madness’, she gave away *Mrs Cohen’s prized recurring 0900 Friday morning slot to *Mrs Goldman, a rival newbie looking to climb the social ranks.

*Mrs Cohen was left severely trichologically and psychologically challenged.

To this day, rumour has it, she had to do her own hair.

“Awful, just awful,” recalls my mother. Whether she was referring to the incident or Mrs Cohen’s lack-lustre locks, I still know not.

As my mother recollects, it was the point of no return. Handbags at dawn. (Vuitton, obviously, but Mulberry at a push). The two women never spoke again. Ever. Awkward, but still. It was the principle.

At this point, my mother fell back into her chair, exhausted.

“Next week”, she promised me, reaching for her fourth coffee, I’ll tell you about *Mrs Levy and the gardener. And speaking of roots, Michelle. Yours need doing. Desperately.”

  • On the advice of legal counsel, all names have been changed.
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