People shift from foot to foot with angst when I tell them I’ve never seen Twin Peaks, just as I do when they tell me they’ve never seen The Sopranos. More recently, two friends have separately told me I must watch it, urgently, that I’d love it, “I can’t believe you’ve never seen it!” etcetera, so I set about looking for it online, but found it wasn’t streaming anywhere. I gave up, thinking, if I’m meant to see it, it will cross my path. That was last Wednesday.
Thursday felt a bit like that last scene in Goodfellas, where Henry Hill is stirring sauce and stressing. I was doing the same (except no drugs or helicopters). I had a tight schedule, and all had to be done to time. At 4pm I had to zoom over to West Ken for a haircut with Dori, then zoom home again to NW10, get changed and Uber to meet friends in Camden, then go on to the Electric Ballroom for the Fontaines DC album launch at 8pm. That’s not a lot of time to get here, there and everywhere in London.
Dori and I go back ten years. She runs The Rabbit Hole, the first ever vegan hair salon in London and probably the universe. I’ve always admired its black and white zig zag floors, cool lighting and black net curtains. Dori is over-subscribed with a waitlist of clients because she’s one of those mythical creatures that touches your head and transforms what was a hedge into a hair heaven. Her look is post-punky, with gorgeous long blonde hair and a subtle under-cut, just to let you know there’s a bite there if needed.
I first visited her after a stylist had cut my hair right up the back in a wedge. A WEDGE. When I sat in Dori’s chair I cried with embarrassment. She comforted me and assured me she’d fix it. She said the cut “was way too old” for me and that I was a “rock ‘n’ roll mother”, and that’s just one of the thousand reasons I’m still in her chair ten years later. She’s a visionary, a therapist, a clever, original businesswoman, a brilliant laugh, my style idol – I once bought a belt because I had seen her wearing one the same – and an ethereal beauty, with a strong spiritual aura. She could easily be from another dimension, sent to float in and re-direct lost heads.
Dori and I usually talk about what films or telly we’ve been watching. I’m all about Ripley right now, and she agreed. We dissected our enjoyment of it together, in particular the detective from Rome, as the scene-stealer. This lead us on to box sets in general. That was when I told her I’d never seen Twin Peaks. She fell silent, scissors paused, and looked at me dead eye in the salon mirror. “Wait here,” she said, and she disappeared into the basement.
She reappeared with a Twin Peaks box set in her hand. “I can’t believe I found it,” she said, “We have some old boxes down there from our move a few years back. I didn’t think I’d find this and, then suddenly knew where it was and put my hands right on it.”
After a few, “Are you kidding mes?” from my gaping mouth, she explained that her whole salon was modelled on Twin Peaks, from the wall colours to that zig zag floor. It was a moment like the three opening notes of Beds Are Burning by Midnight Oil, which always makes me feel like I’m being punched three times in the face.
With Agent Cooper in my bag and hair as light and fluffy as snowflakes, I departed The Rabbit Hole and made it home and out again, only slightly late. My friends declared I was looking younger and followed up by asking, “Have you been to see your vegan hairdresser?” Bold.
After a quick one in the Dublin Castle, we went down to the Electric Ballroom to see the fantastic Fontaines DC. Amongst the crop of famous Fontainians watching with us was Cillian Murphy. This is mad, I thought, some kind of Twin-Peaky Blinder.
Julie Hamill is a novelist, a radio star and more. Follow her on X/Twitter. Support OnLondon.co.uk and its writers for just £5 a month or £50 a year and get things for your money too. Details HERE.