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  It’s Not Really

  About the Hair

  The Honest Truth About

  Life, Love, and the Business of Beauty

  Tabatha Coffey

  with

  Richard Buskin

  I dedicate this book

  TO MY MOTHER

  I thank you for teaching me how to be a strong independent woman.

  Your love, courage, fearlessness, and unwavering belief in me means the world.

  I love you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Introduction: The Inner Bitch

  Chapter 1 - The Naked Truth

  Chapter 2 - Fitting the Fat Peg into the Skinny Hole

  Chapter 3 - The Mob and My Moral Compass

  Chapter 4 - I Will Survive

  Chapter 5 - Fuck Flying a Flag

  Photographic Insert

  Chapter 6 - Idol Dreams

  Chapter 7 - My very First Salon Takeover

  Chapter 8 - The Boob Job from Hell

  Chapter 9 - It’s Not Really About the Hair

  Chapter 10 - Going With Your Gut

  Chapter 11 - “Shut the Fuck Up” and Other Things That Are Okay to Say

  So Why Did I Write This Book, Anyway?

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction: The Inner Bitch

  FROM THE VERY START, my life was unconventional. I mean, how else would you describe a childhood spent in the strip clubs that my parents ran in Adelaide, Australia, finding friendship and a sense of normality in the offbeat company of flamboyant drag queens?

  The kids at school ridiculed me for being different, and I was different—I didn’t think like them, I didn’t act like them, and being the fat kid, I also didn’t look like them. What’s more, I actually viewed being different as a positive attribute more than a problem. If I was a round peg and the hole was square, well, then others would need to change the hole to accommodate me, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to accommodate them.

  Although my life in the clubs was full of fantasy and glamour, it was also punctuated by Dad’s alcohol-fueled mood swings, and was completely turned upside down when he suddenly disappeared and left my family with no money. Watching my mother pick up the pieces and keep us going taught me that in order to survive, you must take responsibility for your own actions and never trust anyone more than you trust yourself. That’s why at a really young age I focused on my own passion and pursued a career as a hairdresser. Following the lead of the transvestite performers in my parents’ clubs, I wanted to create looks that expressed how people felt inside rather than how others perceived them or wanted them to be. Authenticity is—and always has been—the key to who I am and who I want to include in my life.

  Making my way up the industry ladder required plenty of determination and hard work, and by the time I launched my own salon, I knew how to make tough choices that weren’t always popular with everyone else. Driven to be the best hairstylist and businesswoman that I could be, I always made it a point to say what I needed to say in order to accomplish what I needed to accomplish. Anyone who has worked with me knows that I don’t suffer fools easily and that I won’t hesitate to speak my mind. The irony of people’s reaction to my candor is that I just say what most people want to say but don’t have the balls to say. I tell the truth.

  If, along the way, I’ve been called a bitch for being honest, I haven’t taken this personally. I developed a thick skin very early in life. Being raised in strip clubs made me comfortable with who I am and open to the choices that other people make for themselves. So when television viewers who saw me on Bravo’s Shear Genius or on Tabatha’s Salon Takeover called me a bitch for my forthright manner, I had to find a way to incorporate this perception into a further understanding of myself. I have always strived to be myself in front of the cameras and to be honest about what I thought of other people. As a result, bloggers made assertions such as “Tabatha’s an amazing stylist but a total bitch,” or “She’s a great hairdresser even though she’s really ugly.”

  I suppose it’s easy to call someone ugly and hit below the belt when you can hide behind a computer screen all day, or when anonymously outdoing other bloggers’ venomous remarks is your vocation. I bet none of those bloggers would have had the balls to actually spout their nonsense to my face, especially since their chatter was based on nothing. If they could recognize my talent, why did it matter how I looked? No matter what I say, I say it to your face. If that makes me a bitch, so be it.

  But, what was I supposed to do? Sit at home and wallow in self-pity while eating chocolate bars? Not bloody likely. Having never let anyone else define me before, I wasn’t about to start now, and I certainly wasn’t going to obsess over the insults of a few self-appointed critics. Instead of giving their bullshit comments any validity, I dusted myself off and decided to take back the word “bitch.” Why should a bunch of damned bloggers get to define me as a bitch? I decided to define myself. So I reclaimed the word “BITCH” as someone who is Brave, Intelligent, Tenacious, Creative, and Honest. And because I am all of these things, I now proudly own the title . . .

  Bravery—Mine is derived from being a risk taker, personally and professionally, and from always being willing to face my demons head-on.

  Intelligence—I’m no idiot. Despite having left school early to pursue my career, I’m well read, well traveled, street savvy, and I’m a successful businesswoman with a strong gut instinct. What’s more, unlike many women who don’t want to appear intimidating, I never downplay my intelligence. I believe women can be both smart and beautiful.

  Tenacity—If I’m really passionate about something, I never give up. I’m like a pit bull with a bone. I have always battled for what I want and what I believe in, and if I have to dig deeper for the energy to keep going, then that’s what I do to achieve my goals.

  Creativity—If I didn’t have this quality, I certainly wouldn’t be writing this book! I thoroughly enjoy expressing my creativity in all aspects of life, whether I’m experimenting with a new haircut, sporting a new couture outfit, or adapting to a new challenge. Creativity keeps me engaged and makes my life that much more interesting while I am coping with whatever comes my way.

  Honesty—I think I’ve already covered that, haven’t I? It is the key trait that makes people perceive a woman as a bitch—it intimidates people and rubs them the wrong way. Although this reaction is often due to sexism, women are more than capable of being intimidated, too. For me, honesty is saying what I think to the people around me, but it’s also about being honest with myself. If I can’t do that, then I can’t be honest with anyone.

  The more I thought about my own positive spin on the term “bitch,” the more I realized that, on some level, everyone would like to be a little braver, or exercise a little more intelligence, or be a little more creative, or tenacious or honest. The truth is, all of us, women and men, have an inner bitch. We just have to choose how much of it to let out and when.

  As soon as I embraced my own inner bitch, I felt more comfortable with myself. Owning it actually made me feel empowered, and that’s what this book is about: self-empowerment and how it’s all right to be who you are, stand up for what you believe in, and do what makes you happy without being defined by other people.

  Tabatha Coffey, 2011

  Chapter 1

  The Naked Truth

  I GREW UP IN strip clubs, which ironically are among the most authentic and accepting places I have ever been.

  You see, Mum had three sons from a previous marriage: Geoffrey, who’s seventeen years older than me; Gary, who’s fifteen years
my senior; and Greig, who is eight years older. Gary was the only one of my brothers who ever lived near us in Adelaide, the coastal state capital of South Australia. And while he’d visit for Sunday dinners, pretty much the rest of my family—and social—life from the time I was six years old consisted of going to the trio of strip clubs that my parents ran in Adelaide’s central business district and, of course, going to school.

  Jeremiah’s, which was the only club in town open during the day, and the only one with a proper kitchen and chef, offered businessmen a white tablecloth setting along with a prix fixe meal while they watched the girls. Housing a full bar in addition to its stage and catwalk, the place looked more like a dinner theater than a strip joint. The same air of ersatz respectability permeated both of my parents’ other clubs, La Belle and Crazy Horse, where socially acceptable patrons eyed the action while seated comfortably around tables and in booths.

  Forget any notion of these clubs being sleazy dives with members of the dirty raincoat brigade jerking off in the corner—cover charges and full-time security ensured that no one who walked through those doors was a slimeball, drunk, or badly behaved individual . . . although some of them may well have grown belligerent once they realized that most of the performers—and certainly the attractive ones—were transgender.

  That’s right, men performing as women—in those days, they were called transvestites, and to my six-year-old eyes some of those transvestites were the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Even without a stitch of clothing, they were totally convincing. While a lot of them had already undergone sex changes, the ones who still had their wedding tackle were adept at tucking their balls into their abdomens and taping their penises into their arses and concealing it all with mascara.

  Unlike go-go bars, where girls dance around poles and have dollar bills stuffed into their panties, my parents’ clubs featured strippers who executed fully choreographed routines—I grew up living La Cage aux Folles. Accordingly, during the course of two or three songs, they’d peel and shimmy their way out of incredible costumes—ranging from full-on evening gowns to spiced-up schoolgirl outfits—until they were stark naked. It was real entertainment. And many of the performers were absolute characters.

  One of them, “Ingrid,” had that whole Swedish thing going on, including naturally long, straight, platinum-blond hair. And before you ever heard her Aussie accent, you’d swear she just might say, “I’m feelin’ gewd, how err yooo?” Ultraslim with superfine features, she was over six feet tall and had these monstrous legs that seemed to go on for miles. Ingrid may well have been my first “crush”—she was gorgeous, and onstage, wearing hairpieces that made her tresses look big and fabulous, she was a true Nordic Amazon . . . even though Mum had actually paid for her to undergo a sex change in Egypt.

  Surgical advances and cultural changes have made post-op life somewhat easier today for girls like Ingrid who, back then in that chauvinistic Australian setting, had to work hard and endure plenty of heartache just to outwardly be their inner selves. Whether they were applying makeup to cover a five o’clock shadow or fearing what their straight boyfriends might do if they ever discovered that they were dating former men, those girls traveled a tough road. I remember even at a young age hearing about attempted suicides and about those who did commit suicide.

  Whereas Ingrid was tall and slim, “Babette” was huge and curvaceous; a curly, dark-haired Maori with a speech impediment. One night, she freaked out because she didn’t have enough tape to hide her genitals before going onstage. Mum had had enough of the dressing room drama on that particular evening and barked, “Just use some fucking superglue!” Unfortunately, Babette took her “advice.” Burning like crazy after finishing her routine, she couldn’t unstick what she had stuck and she called my mother in tears when she arrived home.

  “I can’t bloody pee, it’s coming out backwards!” she cried.

  “Are you an idiot?” Mum asked incredulously. “I wasn’t seriously suggesting that you use superglue!”

  It took several days before everything loosened up, so to speak, and afterwards Babette was never without tape in the dressing room again. Not that she was the only girl to have a total meltdown. Many of the artistes were excitable and insecure, partly because of all the hormones they were taking and partly because of the social stigma and stresses associated with their life choices. Growing up in my parents’ clubs introduced me to the sacrifices one must sometimes make to live an honest and authentic life. Those “girls” were just trying to be themselves, and despite the superglue debacle, my mother was always there for them if they needed money, a place to stay, or even emotional support. She was a mother figure to them, especially when their families turned their backs or kicked them out for being “different.”

  Some might think Mum should have made better choices regarding my upbringing, and talking to her now I could easily say, “Look at how you raised me!” However, my childhood experiences really helped make me a well-rounded, well-balanced individual, and this was thanks in large part to the broad range of people with whom I came into contact, as well as the contrasting lifestyles that instilled in me my strong sense of reality.

  Certainly, I needed a good dose of drag queen reality, because while the strippers were doing their thing in and out of fantastic costumes, I actually had to wear a very different kind of costume. Mine was the far more sedate uniform required at the posh private Walford Church of England School for Girls that I attended in Hyde Park, close to downtown Adelaide. This uniform consisted of a blue blazer, a blue-and-grey plaid skirt, a shirt, tie, and socks up to my knees. In the summer, we wore a straw hat and in the winter we sported a felt one. Fuck, how I wanted to be one of those glamorous, over-the-top creatures in my parents’ clubs when I was in that getup! I would have killed to undergo some miraculous transformation with a little makeup, a fab outfit, and a wig! Instead, I packed up my lunch box every morning and trudged to school feeling less than spectacular.

  None of my teachers knew about the family business. Since Dad was a qualified accountant, that’s what most of them thought he did. And those who didn’t think he spent his days crunching numbers weren’t about to ask so long as my parents were paying the school fees. For my part, I was never told to conceal the truth; I just knew that no one would understand. Besides which, being ostracized as the “fat kid,” I didn’t have friends to chat with about my offbeat lifestyle and alternative view of the world anyway.

  There were times when I wished I had someone to play with, but when that did happen I was usually frigging bored. I had nothing in common with those kids, and ditto their mothers, who’d drive them to school in their upper-class cars du jour while dressed to the nines with perfectly coiffed hair and caked-on war paint. Their posturing at the car stand didn’t make any sense to me. Full drag makeup and fancy clothes were what one put on at night to look glamorous, not what one wore for a quick drive to school—a drive that my mum sometimes did in her pajamas after a late night working at the club.

  Those other mums were done up like a dog’s dinner just to maintain appearances, and I realized this when I visited their homes and saw that half of them hit the bottle at three in the afternoon while moaning about their struggles to keep up with the Joneses. Behind closed doors they weren’t totally fabulous; they were totally fucking miserable, and so were their kids, who weren’t getting enough attention. Even at a young age, I was able to distinguish between what was real and what was phony, and I knew that my life was far more genuine than theirs. Then again, I was also aware and appreciative of how hard my parents had to work to give me that life.

  Sometimes the clubs wouldn’t close until three in the morning. Yet after only a few hours’ sleep, Mum would get up to make me breakfast, prepare my lunch, and drive me to school. That, to my way of thinking, was how an authentic person lived—no airs, no graces, just taking care of her responsibilities. My mum was as authentic as the strippers she employed.

  And all those strippers
lived as “women,” not drag queens. While their onstage glamazon personas were an act, offstage they walked around in regular women’s clothes without wigs, false lashes, or heavy makeup, living as the women they felt they were. This was normal to me since they were so honest about it and had such strong convictions. Thinking it was weird would have been as abnormal as all of those overdone mums posing at the car stand while dropping off their kids.

  In many respects, the transvestites were my surrogate aunts; aunts who’d say I was their child when we visited a store together, and who would talk intimately to me—and in front of me—while sitting in their birthday suits to apply makeup inside the tiny backstage rooms at both Jeremiah’s and La Belle. During the day, many of them would practice their routines and rehearse new material, and if they didn’t want to go home between the lunch and evening shifts, they’d also sit in those tight, cramped little rooms to sew their costumes and bullshit about anything from sex changes and hormone treatments to the latest mascara and where to find size-twelve heels.

  Listening to all this while helping the girls sort through their sequins and beads, I was eventually told, “If you’re going to sit here, be useful. It’s time you learned how to sew.” So I did, and when I became really good at it, they’d bring me their shit to work on. Beads and feathers were everywhere as those girls laid out all of their fabulous costumes and makeup on the counter for the evening. I was as transfixed by how they put themselves together as I was captivated by their chitchat about the guys they’d screwed the night before and the ones they still wanted to get their hands on.