I got my hair cut today. The first time since 22nd November 2014 according to my hairdresser. I really didn’t want to go whilst I was obviously pregnant (think I probably just looked fat then) because my hairdresser would have wanted to talk about it. Ugh! I hate chatting to hairdressers.
Anyway I decided that after ten months I should probably get it cut. I’ve had it tied up everyday since Emily was born and it has received zero TLC. I swear whole weeks have passed without it being brushed. It would get washed and then immediately tied into a scruffy bun again. If I am really lucky I might find the time to dry it first but that is actually a waste of time because it goes straight into the bun afterwards. On the odd occasion it has been let down it was a thick, bushy, dried-up mess that I couldn’t be bothered to tame into anything remotely suitable for public viewing. Back in the bun it would go.
Today Dan was off and Emily was relatively cheery (currently out of a mental leap. Thank f***!) so I thought I’d go. Rang up and they could fit me in in the afternoon. So I fed Emily, made sure Dan knew where my stash of frozen boob juice was and what to do with it and off I went. I took my Kindle and stopped at Tesco on the way for chocolate. This was my one hour of me time and I was determined to rinse it for all it was worth.
There is just one problem though. I am crap with hairdressers. I go in and want my hair to look radically different, super stylish and to revolutionise my life. I always come out with a trim. Today I came out with a trim and a bit of a fringe. I think there are two reasons that this happens:
1) I go in with the best intentions. “I want loads off!” I say. “It’s a mess and needs to go.” At this point the hairdresser will nod sympathetically whilst trying to run a tiny comb through my mass of hair, with little regard to the pain it’s inflicting upon my scalp. I state that I want 6 or so inches off the bottom, lots of layers put back in and a fringe to soften my face. The problem is that hairdressers don’t seem to like cutting hair. I think they get nervous that I don’t know how much 6 inches is. (I’m a maths teacher, love and also not a man. I understand the length of an inch perfectly well.) They then hold up a bit of my hair from the back between two fingers and say “about that much?” This leads to the second problem.
2) I’m too polite to criticise their work. As soon as they ask me any sort of question I generally choose the answer that makes their life easier. This means I get a trim. Today she held up about an inch of hair and I said “perfect!” and the assertive part of me died.
So once more I walked out of the hairdressers with a bland haircut but this time with a minor twist. As she was doing the mirror thing, I weakly reminded her that I had asked for a fringe. She grabbed a bit, cut it in two snips, ruffled it up and said “how’s that?” “Great!” I reply enthusiastically, whilst making a mental note to punch myself in the face once out of sight.
On the upside I did get one hour of almost uninterrupted Kindle reading, chocolate eating, someone else washing my hair and a sneaky little head massage. That was probably worth the £25, unlike this haircut…