The final cut

In 1979, Jerusalemites from English-speaking countries were thrilled when two Englishmen, Peter Twentyman and William White, opened a hairdressing salon on Hamesila Street just a couple of doors down from the popular fish restaurant, the now defunct Benny Dagim (which has changed its size and identity to become the Bezalel Hotel). The new salon was called Roots, and it became a magnet, firstly for women and a few men from England who wanted the familiarity of a hairdresser from the old country. Other native English speakers quickly followed, and soon there was also an Israeli clientele as the salon's reputation spread by word of mouth. It is no less important to be able to converse with one's hairdresser than it is to converse with one's physician or lawyer. Each has to understand the other. It wasn't just a matter of clients' being able to explain what they wanted and the hairdresser's being able to tell them whether such a style would or would not suit them and why. For many people, the person who styles their hair becomes their confidant – the person with whom they can share some of their private thoughts and the person who will often give them better advice than would a psychologist or a lawyer. Moreover, Roots produced several hair products that were suitable for the Israeli climate and adaptable to the harsh Israeli water, which for newcomers to the country often had an adverse effect on their hair. The products, which were as natural as possible, were developed by chemist Edward Gaut, who was also from England. He came up with acid-balanced shampoos which, unlike local products at the time, did not ruin the hair. While Twentyman and White were building up the business, another Englishman, a hairdresser who had run three salons of his own, was contemplating making aliya. Last week, he reminisced about it to a writer for In Jerusalem. He says he wasn't quite sure where in Israel he should settle. Discussing it with a friend, the friend said that the only place for him was Roots in Jerusalem. Antony Ordman, originally from Manchester, began working at Roots in 1982. Twentyman left the business in 1988, and White asked Ordman to become the manager. Ordman actually preferred cutting hair, but he became both manager and hairdresser because otherwise Roots would have had to close down. It was an era of price freezing in Israel, and the business simply could not make a profit while paying salaries and suppliers. The only solution was to technically close Roots and open Raffles, which has been the name of the salon ever since. Nothing changed other than the name and the prices, which increased slightly but not enough to deter the faithful clientele. Approximately 10 years ago, White offered to sell the business to Ordman, lock stock and barrel, telling him that if he didn't take it over, he would close it down. At that time, Ordman could not contemplate closure, so he agreed to White's ultimatum. But now at age 70, Ordman himself has decided to close Raffles and will execute the final cut on the premises today. That doesn't mean that he's going to stop cutting hair. What it means is that he's been keeping tabs on veteran clients who have reached retirement age and watched them dispense with the things they don't like doing and focus on the things they do like doing. Ordman doesn't like the managerial side of the business but loves the creative side. Before closing shop, he began negotiating with other salons to see if he could work there as a hairdresser, and he's had quite a few willing nods. All his regular clients have his home number and cellphone number, so when he gets settled somewhere else, they'll know where to find him. Hairdressing has taken up the major part of Ordman's life. He left school when he was 14 and enrolled in a hairdressing course to see if he had any talent in that direction. He obviously did. After completing the course, he did a three-year apprenticeship at one of the luxury salons in Manchester, where the chairs were all gilded, and waitresses were on hand to serve refreshments to the clients. After his marriage at age 24, Ordman opened the first of his three British salons. He always made sure that the décor was sophisticated, with at least one piece of antique furniture plus a proper reception area. Even at the height of his success, he took a Vidal Sassoon refresher course every year. He can't speak highly enough about Vidal Sassoon, whom he refers to as “the most iconic hairdresser” who, in the 1960s, revolutionized the hairdressing industry with his geometric cuts. It put an end to beehives, back-combing and rollers, Ordman says, recalling that the 1960s and '70s were revolutionary in many other respects. For example, fashion designer Mary Quant, who was one of Vidal Sassoon's clients to whom he'd given his five-point geometric cut, had introduced the micro mini-skirt and the makeup paint box. The geometric cut was so successful, Ordman says, that any woman who had the cut simply had to shake her head, and the hairstyle fell into place. One of the things that Ordman liked about Roots when he first started working there was that it was typical of a good British salon, with a proper reception area and refreshments including tea, coffee and wine readily available. In its heyday, Roots or Raffles employed five hairdressers, three or four assistants and three part-time receptionists. The clients included heads of government departments, academics and a future president of Israel, who in those days insisted on a semi-Afro hairstyle. His wife was also a client, as was Aliza Olmert when her husband was mayor of Jerusalem. Tzachi Hanegbi used to go there with his mother, Geula Cohen. At the opposite end of the political spectrum was former Meretz MK Naomi Chazan. Ordman, who admits to being somewhat right-wing in his views, really enjoyed some of the political discussions he had with his clients, especially those who were left of center with whom he could disagree in the most polite British manner. “They were all fabulous people,” he says as nostalgia washes over his face. Ordman had an excellent relationship with photographer Mike Horton, another British expat, who many years ago worked for The Jerusalem Post. If Ordman created a hairstyle of which he was particularly proud, he'd call Horton, who would rush to the salon to capture the image for posterity. Ordman has a certain sense of drama, and sometimes when Horton went to the salon to photograph, Ordman got the client to dress up, and he set up special lighting effects and even background scenery. Ordman always had the ability to talk to anyone, and he suspects that some of his clients came in as much for the conversation as to have their hair cut. Even his wife, Suri, went to the salon to get her hair cut because he refused to cut it home, saying that the atmosphere wasn't right. On rare occasions, Ordman cut and styled someone's hair at the person's home, but only in cases where the client was incapacitated by illness or advanced age, but he wasn't really comfortable working outside the salon. On Purim, Ordman always put on some form of entertainment for the clients. The staff were all dressed in Purim costumes, and one of the clients, a professional belly dancer, went in and performed her act. Modern technology also invaded the salon. Some of his clients from overseas who spent part of the year in Jerusalem would talk to their grandchildren abroad on their mobile phones while having their hair styled. Some of these clients also called him from abroad to make an appointment for a couple of hours after they were due to land at Ben-Gurion Airport. It was never dull, and in true British character, the customer was always right. “Service is everything,” says Ordman.

The final cut

A Jerusalem hairdressing institution closes its doors.

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The final cut

A Jerusalem hairdressing institution closes its doors.

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