bad hair daze

august 2007

the latest in my occasional series of ‘ooh! look what no-one wanted to publish so i’ll bung it here’ pieces, or selected material from my hard drive… i should probably point out that the punchline (such as it is) is for humour (such as it is) – it’s not actually true…

Cut It Out

I just don’t get it, I’m afraid.

What is it about the hairdresser’s that I’m supposed to find a relaxing, pampering experience – leaning my head backwards so my scalp can be pummeled while that sharp pointy bit of the sink (and which sadist designed hairdressers’ sinks?) pokes into my neck? Or maybe it’s the opportunity to examine my complexion under unflattering lighting for an hour while my head is tugged every which way and I’m told to “don’t move”? No, I know! It must be the scintillating small talk about where I’m going on holiday this year and how many pints I plan on sinking later… snooze.

I can never believe that Hollywood stars fly their stylists half-way round the world just to wash and dry their hair for a ten-minute TV appearance. I’ve yet to meet the hairdresser I’d loan a bus fare to. Maybe it’s because my budget doesn’t stretch to Hollywood star service, or maybe I’m doing something wrong. Like not spilling all my secrets, for example. Why would a total stranger want to know about my boyfriend’s auntie’s hip replacement or my recent bout of constipation? (Totally made that up for effect, by the way!) How do you even begin such an intimate conversation? It’s so un-British! And yet according to popular myth, hairdressers possess all the best qualities of the Queer Eye guys, routinely leaving women feeling gorgeous, fulfilled and full of confidence. Not around here, they don’t…

For I have been victim to some spectacular hair disasters, my friends. There was the poodle perm that made me look like a cross between a newborn lamb and Barry from Brookside (remember him?), the ’simple’ bob that took two-and-a-half hours (I was desperate – no pun intended, ha ha – to look like Teri Hatcher in The New Adventures of Superman) and the piece de resistance: the hairdresser who told me I needed to get a job, interrogated me about my health and love life, and told really offensive jokes. I cried for an hour afterwards. The cut was good, though.

There was also the snarky scissor-hands who kept me waiting forty-five minutes then quibbled over my £2 student discount, and the experienced salon owner who left me with half an inch of fringe – long before Amelie made it fashionable. And who could forget the girl who "couldn’t concentrate today" because she’d lost her favourite comb… Then of course I’ve had numerous “just a trim”s where I got scalped and lots of stylists have grazed my ear by mistake. I should have learnt from my first ever trip to a proper grown-up salon: the hairdresser was so busy chatting (to someone else, natch) she actually poked me in the eye with her scissors. Too shy and mortified to complain, I sat there with tears rolling down my cheek, wondering if beauty always had to be this painful.

So why do I keep going back for more? Well, I have tried not going. I once gave myself a rather snazzy layered style at home but badly injured my wrist (I needed an ice pack) in the process. Then there was the time I dyed my hair black and my scalp got covered with little black blobs that wouldn’t wash off. And I can’t forget all the times I tried to curl my hair (also known as my life between ages of 12 and 15) only to end up with a frizzy mess that fell flat within a couple of hours. I’ve never managed to find an alternative to my hair’s default setting of “just hanging there”. I can’t even master the art of the updo: my hair’s so thick it falls straight back down again, and the effort of piling it up gives me arm strain. Seriously.

So you see, it’s a Catch 22: I may have bad luck with hairdressers, but I have even worse luck left to my own devices! But there may be some light at the end of the tunnel: recently, I found a woman who’ll cut my hair in less than an hour from sink to chair, doesn’t insult me or cause me bodily harm and keeps the chatter to a minimum.

…Thanks, Mum!