"Mary Rector asked me to write a page. She said, “Inspire those young hairdressers,” and it dawned on me that even we older ones have a youthful approach to our craft. So, let’s wander through time and I’ll share some experiences.
In the ‘60s, my colleagues and I inhaled the vigor of London where high energy was the norm, ideas were eclectic and elastic, and we stretched them to the limit. Inspiration owes much to a gut reaction to any given situation, and I am constantly elated by the efficacy of hair as an art form, and by the part so many of us have played in bringing this about. So, let me relay a few stories of the evolving excitement of the past 66 years.
I was apprenticed at 14 to Adolph Cohen. The address was 101 Whitechapel Road, in the heart of London’s East End. Above the door outside the salon were the words: Adolph Cohen, Hairdresser and Wigmaker. The year was 1942. World War II was on and the German air force was very busy rearranging the streets of London. People slept in bomb shelters supplied by the city, and each morning we would awaken and wash as best we could. I would often buy breakfast from the street vendors and make my way to the salon, joining other apprentices in training. The boss was a strict disciplinarian and would inspect our shoes, the creases in the boys’ pants, and our fingernails. I failed miserably to live up to his expectations. But he taught me that discipline was a very necessary inconvenience. It was a troubled time, which brought out the best of human nature and the quirky British sense of humor.
One day in the salon, I was assisting the boss with a perm, and in those days a portion of hair was wrapped in a rod and each rod was then placed in a machine that weighed at least half a ton. Once the customer was imprisoned in this machine, she could not move. In each cubicle was a notice that said: During an air raid, you are permed at your own risk. The air raid warning sounded and the boss ushered all the staff down to the cellar, including the clients that were not being permed. Eventually the “All clear” came and each of us went upstairs to look after those clients that were being permed. The golden rule was: During an air raid, turn off the electric switch. I had forgotten to do that. Panic set in. This lady who had come in for a long-hair curly look suddenly had very short hair. The rest of her hair was still in the machine, having been burned off. She looked at herself in the mirror with wide-eyed horror. The boss came in and tidied up the total mess I had made. She kept staring at herself, but said nothing. Strangely, the short look suited her bone structure. And as she got up to go, she looked at me and said, “Not bad for wartime, son.”
Many years later, in the ‘60s, I had what was for me one of the most pleasant experiences. A regular client, a businesswoman with the most gorgeous figure and bone structure, married a gentleman of means who would not allow her to work. A year later she came to see me with a very troubled look. She had put on much weight and was very unhappy about herself. She said, “Vidal, I think my marriage is in trouble,” and we discussed the situation. She said, “Please give me a different look.” I said, “No. What I am going to do is phone Weight Watchers and Mary Quant, the brilliant fashion designer who invented the mini. You’re going in to see Mary and she’s going to make you something not for now, but for three months’ time.” During those three months my client would come in repeatedly and ask, “Am I ready yet? Am I ready?” I’d say, “No, you’re not ready yet.” But Weight Watchers did a superb job of slimming her down. After three months, she came into the salon. I looked at her with a sense of satisfaction. “Now I can carve a shape into your bone structure. I can see those bones.” I cut her hair, Mary Quant gave her that new look, and I went about my business. A couple of weeks later, whilst working in the salon, I was tapped on the shoulder. I turned, and there was the husband of this once-again gorgeous looking lady. He said, “Vidal, I want to thank you. I lost my wife but found my old girlfriend.”
With all the extraordinary adventures that happened to me in the ‘60s, nothing was more gratifying than that moment. I don’t know if I could get away with that today. But for me, the working of hair was architecture with a human element. Even today I see people as shapes, bone structures, and as animated subjects for the scissors.
If there was a personal influence, it was Bauhaus. Bauhaus was a movement of artists and artisans that started in Germany in 1919, and was expelled by the Nazis in 1933. After the war, Bauhaus came back into prominence and still functions to this day. Its headquarters now is in Dessau, Germany, and was built by the great architect and teacher, Walter Gropius. I wanted my 50th anniversary in hair to be at the Bauhaus. In 1992, Gerald Battle-Walsh, who was, and still is, the manager of our German salons, met with the Bauhaus committee. They had to decide whether what we did related to Bauhaus principles. Because of our architectural shapes and the way we were cutting hair, we were accepted by them. And on my 50th anniversary, we did a major show with live models and videos for the European press. It was a day of enormous excitement, for philosophically we were being accepted by architects, artists and others. There were many more moments of pure passion. Hair became not just a way of making a living, but a way of life.
It must be obvious to you by now that I had a superb team, and we enjoyed every moment of the adventure. There is so much to tell about the great fashion names we worked with in Paris, Milan, New York, London, Tokyo…I could go on, and I will, as it will all be related in an autobiography that I am writing at this moment. In fact, I had to stop work on my book to write this article. My aim is to inspire the young—who have no idea how much creativity and strength they have within them—so they feel the pride of developing new ideas, for it is important that we all do credit to this wonderful craft."
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