Larry Ryan goes to the marathon that is the Irish Hairdressing Championship, an annual event that starts at noon and ends at midnight.
Euro-disco, bland chart pop and early-1990s trance music boom through the speaker system. It's 1pm on a cold, grey Sunday, but in the ballroom of the Burlington Hotel, in Dublin, a battery of lights focuses on the centre of the floor. The Irish Hairdressing Championship is in full swing, the room is crowded and among the spectators is an air of anticipation and studied boredom, in equal measure.
"No coaching from outside the competition floor, please, ladies and gentlemen."
In a large rectangle, flanked by a four-deep row of chairs for spectators, sit about 100 models being primped by 100 hairdressers, or stylists as they prefer to be known. The first event, the Trainee Cut and Colour, for women's hair, is up and running. Competitors must "create a fashion style on the competition floor, all tools allowed. At least two centimetres must be cut off the hair."
Each trainee hairdresser is armed with scissors, combs and various clips. "Can models and competitors for trainee blow-dry please go to the holding area?" asks the announcer. Fringes are sent in directions that defy gravity. There is much big pointy hair in bright colours. This must be what it was like backstage at a Mötley Crüe gig in 1987.
The audience looks on, although, truth be told, there isn't a huge amount to see at this stage. We are, however, briefly diverted when a girl in all-green body paint walks by. A father and son sit in armchairs a few yards from the action. They don't appear overly excited by any of it, either. When a bell rings, the trainees are told to stop working and leave the rectangle. The audience cheers. One contestant, who leaves crying, is consoled by her mother and a friend.
Six judges then enter the rectangle of light. They stroll around for 40 minutes, taking notes on each model's hair. The models strike poses, but one or two soon seem to lose interest, slumping back in their chairs. The models are identified only by number tags on their wrists, which make them seem like cattle.
There are 10 events to go. I'm hoping one of the contests will be for best short back and sides - surely the 100-metre dash of the hairdressing world. It would surely be a crowd-pleaser, although there is no mention of it in the programme. The last event is scheduled to start at 7.30pm, but the day is already running late. Ominously, the programme states: "All starting times are approximate."
"It's the Oscars of Irish hairdressing," says Eoin Wright, president of the Irish Hairdressers Federation, which has run nationwide competitions to showcase industry talent since 1974. The stock of Irish hairdressers has risen greatly in recent years, Wright explains, and last year Irish hairdressers produced their first world champion at HairWorld, the world hairdressing championships hosted by the Organisation Mondiale Coiffure.
Wright, who has been a hairdresser for 20 years, is the fourth generation of his family to go into the business. Last year he opened an upmarket salon called Foundation, on Upper Stephen Street in Dublin. He seems stressed today, running the show, so we don't keep him talking for long. "Hairdressers are scary," he says.
Another organiser, Maeve O'Healy-Harte, who publishes Irish Hairdresser International, keeps it equally brief. "It's fantastic PR for whoever wins the competition," she says. A judge this year, she is the current Champion of Champions, an award given only to competitors who win two categories and get two other top-10 placings. She won the title seven years ago; it hasn't been won since. "You don't compete again once you've won that," she says.
For spectators, the competition is bizarre. We spend a lot of time staring blankly as the hairdressers prepare their models, although they have done much of the preparation in advance. Most of what they do on the competition floor is mere nips and tucks. Then, for an even longer period, the models just sit there, being observed by judges. Perhaps, if you keep looking, something might change, but you suspect it won't. The terrible music continues to blare.
"Can the models for Senior Creative Fantasy please go to the holding area?"
Throughout the day an odd assortment of people with bizarre outfits has been strolling around with giant, strangely coloured hair. It's enough to make you think you are hallucinating. Oops . . . there goes Betty Boop with a three-foot Afro. The fantasy category is the signature event of the evening, the one everyone talks about. The hairdressers must create a fantasy haircut on a theme of their choice. If the rest of the day is normality times 10, this is it times 100. Models have exaggerated hairstyles attached to their heads, made out of hair or hair-like fabrics. Some of the creations are huge; they must hurt the models' necks. One model is dressed as a devil; another appears to be wearing the Jeanie Johnston; a third looks as if she has a woven pile of prawn crackers on her hair. During the Fantasy event, two models faint.
I bump into a guy I know. He has been roped into modelling in exchange for free haircuts for the rest of the year. The style he gets ends up winning one of the two men's categories. It can best be described as a fringe that goes one way with a clump of hair farther back that goes the other. There's a dash of purple in it, too. He seems more excited by all the women floating around. Men are largely outnumbered at the event. "Being a bloke, you don't grow up wanting to be a hairdresser," says one of the men taking part in the competition, Ciaran Cannon of Zeba Hairdressing. "I still get stick about it from my brothers; they work on building sites."
Sadly, there's no sign of the short-back-and-sides event. The judges retire to decide on the winners. At 11pm the awards ceremony begins. Five people receive prizes in each category. Each has to come up to the stage. It takes a while.
By midnight the championship draws to a close, and attention turns to the bar. Hairdressers have a reputation for partying, and this is one of their biggest nights of the year. "Stick around," says the owner of one Dublin salon. "There will be lots of very drunk, frisky girls later." The music gets camper, the people more flamboyant, the lights even brighter. For the pros it may be normal, but, for novices, 12 hours is a long time to spend in a giant, pulsating hair salon. Escape seems the best option.