Steel Town: Hairdressers in Alcúdia

When did hairdressers become like clubs or discos? I am personally not averse to dance music. But everything in its place. Discos - dance music. Hairdressers - erm? Once upon a time one could listen to Steve Wright and his characters, whilst being engaged in meaningful conversation as to the relative merits of Benidorm or Magaluf for the annual holiday. Now though, one is in the mix, bass pulsing through the clippers. The advantage, I guess, is that, like discos, it is impossible to indulge in any discussion, other than to shout requests for a little bit more off here or there. It is perhaps unsurprising that the Spanish performing rights people might want a touch of royalty from the hairdressers.

Though estate agents may have been decimated by the "crisis", they are still to be found in great abundance, as are hairdressers. So many, it is a wonder that anyone has any hair left. But the "crisis" has also presumably cut into the takings of the "peluquerias", except where there is a scissor-hands bargain to be had. Styl Hair. It is a curiosity of some Mallorcan businesses that they adopt an anglicised name, or part of a name. Not Styl Pelo, but Styl Hair. One wonders how the locals get on with the pronunciation, given that "h" is Spanish-silent and that "air" comes out as "ire". Whatever. Disco and eight euros a pop for a cut and wash. Around a half what you normally might pay. Low-cost hairdressing. But like No Frills Excursions is something of a misnomer as it suggests that you don't get much (which is far from the case), so Styl Hair is hardly no frills. The attention is really very good.

Black and white. The mourning-coloured drape is the black to the white of a hospital gown, with which it bears more than a passing resemblance of non-backness. Even the broom and brushpan are black - and white - a Dalmatian of sweeping up, collecting the jet black of the previous occupant of the Mastermind chair. The "chicas" are topped with blonde, one of them quite pale-skinned and very un-Spanish-looking, like a Sally Webster of circa mid-1980s. One waits, not too long, flicking through a recent "Hola", an "extraordinary photographic session" involving Guillermo, more commonly known as William, he of the prince variety.

A woman appears to have been electrocuted. One expects to see straps round her wrists, her hair having expanded into a set of public execution. I think of Germaine Greer and her description of Suzanne Moore - hair birds-nested and "fuck-me shoes". I can't see the shoes. She is from the short and compact Spanish-female species, a mini-Arantxa Sánchez Vicario without the energy. The mourning gown is too long and covers her feet.

On the shelf below the mirror is the water bottle, used to moisten the hair. It could as easily be a soda syphon. Maybe it is, and I'm about to have a dash of brandy with a lemon slice applied to the barnet. The electrocuted woman worries me. What devilment might have previously been inflicted on her? There is something that appears to be a device of torture, a twist and twirl of thick metal screwed into the wall. It goes nowhere, like the road in Formentor, just turning with no obvious purpose. Or maybe it is a system for tonging, the hair twined and pulled and then permed into a series of bed springs. And then I realise. How do the Spanish pronounce "styl"? Steel. Steel hair. Scissor hands and steel hair. Techno, garage industrial dance music. The Sally Webster's probably from Sheffield. Or is she in fact Susan from The Human League, circa early-1980s? It all begins to make sense. The bass thumps. Of course. Bassline. Where did this come from?

** Styl Hair. Very good value and service. Back of Mercadona in Alcúdia old town.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.