SY R I A
Jordanian Stylist Sees the Light... Blond on the Road to Damascus
T
ravelling by bus from Amman to Damascus for the prestigious World Hair Show, a young Jordanian hair stylist saw the light literally radiating from the head of the golden haired Marlene Friis. Enchanted by her glowing Danish locks, the ambitious hair artist saw the rare beauty as his chance to win the coveted trophy for ‘Best Hair in Show’ at the Damascus, Meridien Hotel hair competition the following day. He charmed and attempted to persuade Marlene and me, her rather less interesting brown haired companion, to be models in the Syrian fashion event of the year. Free
spirited wayfarers, budding feminists and not necessarily pro the fashion industry, our ego’s were not so easily enticed. An offer of US$100, towards further exciting adventure was however not so easy to turn down. We were also just returning from a clandestine night camping in the forbidden Nabataean Caves of Petra, dusty, hairy and weary, the idea of some five star Damascean luxury was appealing. Having never attended a hair competition, we pictured ourselves lined up in chairs to be styled in front of judges. We arrived nonchelantly at the hotel the next day, little did we know that we had become hapless victims of fashion and were whisked up to a hotel room for a three hour stint of make-up and styling. Marlene’s shining tresses were painstakingly fashioned by the doting stylist into a glowing crown fashioned from her Viking gold. Wearing a gorgeous satin aquamarine dress, which offset her sapphire eyes and finished with a set of tottering turquoise heels. She was then spirited away, leaving me to be transformed into the fanstasy lesbian bride of the heavyset and slightly bearded Russian entrant, Valeria. Unsure of where she was heading Marlene was herded to a backstage area and pushed through a curtain onto a shocking flashbulb intense catwalk in front of a crowded room full of spectators. She sashayed up and down the catwalk like a total pro thinking that she had the $100 in the bag. It was only when she returned to the hotel room with the stylist that she became aware that when she lifted her armpit he was more interested in the secret gold nestled beneath them then her crowning glory. Asking for a closer look, he dove in, inhaling as he went, Marlene’s instant reaction to clamp her armpit down on his nestled proboscis. He rubbed his nose, apologised sheepishly and asked for a second look at his first experience of golden pubes. Marlene slowly raised her arm to give him a second chance but her armpit’s magnetic charms were too much for the poor Jordanian and his nose was once more clamped in the vicelike grip of Odin’s armpit. Heading back from my graceless catwalk debut I met her at the lift doors where she found me struggling for two minutes to get my bridal stiletto unstuck from rubber carpet of the lift. “We are leaving” she said furiously rubbing make-up off her face. “What about the money?” Her look said that now wasn’t the time and its force magically released stumbling out on my ungainly heels voluminous merangue skirts foaming around me. Racing to the room we managed to get out in five minutes, remarkable considering, that the do and dress had taken three hours to get into. Face still caked in make-up we legged it out the room leaving behind the bewildered Valeria, and the goldstruck Jordanian. We ran from the hotel onto the streets of Damascus laughter building the more distance we put between ourselves and the hotel, no richer but I hope at least some dignity intact. Next installment: We don Jordanian headscarves for an assault on the Iranian embassy. – N O N I R E D D I N G , B R I G H TO N
7
