I went for my annual hair cut today - a day which causes an eruption of pure fear in every fibre and follicle of my being.It was time. My hair was so stupendously thick and heavy that it hurt my scalp to tie it up.
However there are many aspects of the hairdressing experience that make me close my eyes and wish I was anywhere but a hair salon. So many so, that I’ve compiled this handy dandy list:
1) The Small Talk – Oh the mindless chit chat, how I dread it. Do you really care what stage of education I’m in? And I don’t mean to sound like a snob, but I don’t think your hair cutting and combing NVQ is quite as challenging as my degree module in Latin, but I’ll nod along when you say you sympathise with my work load. And no, I’m not going on holiday this year, no I’m not going out on the town tonight and yes, I am aware that my hair is long... That’s why I’m here, idiot – just wash my hair please.
2) The Sink – Am I the only one who finds the sink intolerable? They ask me if it’s comfortable, but I feel as though I have to oblige, otherwise I’ll be judged for adjusting the basin. SO MUCH PRESSURE. Then my suffering is increased by an unexplainable and unfounded fear that I might have nits and will therefore be ejected from such a trendy cosmopolitan establishment, where everyone has perfect fringes and wear all black ensembles.
3) The Snip – Okay, so I don’t have nits. I’m still in the salon. How much hair do I want cut off? Well, in regular human terms, two inches. Yet hairdressers seem to have a wholly different measurement system as they seem to translate ‘two inches’ into ‘the majority of my hair’. Whilst I weep a little inside every time I see a chunk of my hair fall to the floor, I’m getting flash backs of the time a ‘top stylist’ (you know, the one who is arrogantly name checked on the price list) cut me a ridiculously short fringe and made me cry instantaneously. I’m not normally a praying kind of gal, but I’m hoping to high heaven it won’t happen again. Major crossed keys.
4) The Mirror – I find sitting in front of a mirror during the gruelling process punishing. The longer I have to look at my face, the wonkier my eyes become, the greyer my skin grows and my reflection ends up as one big jumble that wouldn’t look out of place in a police line up of murderers, who will state that their childhood and repressed memories made them do it.
5) The Aftermath – Having begrudgingly paid for this cosmetic torture, I return home only to regret every cut to every strand, and look up pictures of models with long hair and wish I had my hair back (although I know full well that my hair NEVER looked like theirs before this fateful day) .
Until next year.