Proscrastinator!

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The first time I went to a remote community in the Pilbara was to cut an old lady’s hair.  I’m not a hairdresser by any stretch of the imagination but I can wield a pair of scissors and had cut my own dear old Nan’s hair plenty of times (I come from a long line of thrifty hoarder food obsessed photo addicts!).  My friend Beck had asked me if I could cut hair and I had responded with that bit of personal history and my usual positive ‘tude which was good enough for her, apparently.  What I had forgotten was that I had never been much good at it, but no matter, I’m nothing if not hopeful.

“Why’s that?” I asked. And so the savagely unfair tale of Old Nell’s haircut emerged.

Beck was working as a support person for the aged residents of the community about 2 hours out of Port Hedland and the day before had brought a bus load of old dears into town for shopping, errands etc.  Nell, at age 60ish, was a very dark skinned, reserved woman in a bright hued floral skirt, braless and barefoot with passable English, but like many indigenous Australians, no urge to speak up or at all.

The Japanese have a saying – two ears, one mouth – Nell was a fully paid up subscriber of that club. She had presented herself at one of only two hair salons in Hedland at the time wanting a wash and trim, a simple enough request.  She was refused service.  No actual specific reason was given, in fact there was a wishy washy white lie about needing to make an appointment first, even though the place was practically empty.

Beck tried to argue that they’d come a long way, it wasn’t practical or possible to come back tomorrow, they didn’t look busy, etc etc… all to no avail.  During the exchange it became evident that the staff were simply unwilling to touch her, there were two outspoken staff that finally admitted: “because she’s dirty.”

Standing silently hearing herself be discussed and argued about minute by minute old Nell shrank more and more into her quiet steady centre in that busy shopping centre.   So that’s how I found myself heading out bush in Beck’s beaten up Patrol for my first ever experience of a black community on country.  The Pilbara is a harsh but beautiful landscape that one gradually comes to appreciate for its still starkness, we cruised along red dirt roads pluming dust from our wheels dodging potholes and shooting the shit in between indignant reactions to what had happened to Nell the previous day.  Then we arrived.

A few broken down car husks marked the start of the settlement, dogs roamed around freely and kids stared openly.  Small groups of people were scattered about sitting in the dirt in the shade of trees yarning, or to my city eyes not doing much of anything.

We pulled up to a house with a ringlock fence with rubbish laying against it.  A bare red yard, except for a few clumps of spinifex, a cold fire with a shabby foam mattress alongside it were the only ornaments.  A young girl came out and stood on the verandah staring silently at us as we came up the path, she trotted back inside without saying a word.

We entered the house, which felt gloomy and dim compared to the bright, clear, warm day outside. Beck spoke to a woman and introduced me, saying I’d come to cut Aunty Nell’s hair.  She nodded seriously and went to get her.
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