Tomorrow I have an appointment to get my hair cut. It’s been 10 months since my last hair cut. Not a big deal you might think. Maybe not if you have long hair that can hide a few months growth but if you have a really short style there’s nowhere to hide. My hair was about 1 inch all over after my last cut. Now it looks like this:
It’s the longest my hair has been since high school days but I hate having my hair cut and until now I have been gleefully using the excuse that I’m too busy with a new baby to fit in a hair cut. Shine is almost 1. I can’t use this excuse forever. Tomorrow I need to sort it out. Before Bird leaves me for a more attractive model with shorter hair.
Some people love getting their hair cut don’t they? I envy those people. Not me. I can’t stand it.
I hate the initial waiting period when I am sat frantically guessing who will cut my hair. I analyse them all trying to work out which I think would be best at short styles usually based on flimsy notions such as the length of their own hair. I go so long between cuts that it’s never at the same place or with the same hairdresser.
Hairdressers either love me or hate me because I usually have a really short style. Some stylists are nervous about chopping off someone’s hair and haven’t had much experience doing really short styles. Other hairdressers love the opportunity to go to town and chop it all off. I live in fear that the hairdresser I get will have a look of panic when I ask for an elfin crop. Or a really short blunt fringe. It doesn’t start well when that’s the case.
I’m not good at small talk in a salon setting. When I sit in the chair everything empties from my mind and I suddenly become the most boring woman on earth. They ask, ‘so are you going out tonight?’. ‘Er, no, I haven’t been out since some time in 2007.’ That shuts that down then. Queue uncomfortable silence.
I usually reach for the magazines at this point and try to look really engrossed in the Hello from last January. Once I’ve flipped my way through that though and there are no more mags on offer I have to skip back to the start and pretend I am just going to give it another read to see if I missed anything.
I hate looking into the mirror. Let’s face it, your hair doesn’t look right when it’s halfway through the chop, and I don’t want my face to display any concern and put them off. I don’t want to look at the hairdresser for fear they will start talking to me again. I don’t want to look at others in the salon in case they catch me looking and think I’m sneakily checking them out, which I totally would be doing.
I hate the point where they put the scissors down and go to get the hairdryer. It signals the end of the haircut and if I’m not happy that it’s over I start to panic silently. For some reason I can’t bring myself to tell them I’m not happy even if I’m not. I think once in my life I have asked for them to take it shorter, or change the style a bit, but it didn’t make it any better, it was worse if anything, and I still hated the end result. So now I smile politely and say I love it even if inside I’m thinking, ‘that was not what I wanted, what have you done? Start again!’ I think it’s rare they can correct it if you don’t like it so why bother saying you hate it when nothing can be done? I avoid any awkward moment and suck it up. Then I get outside the salon seething and call a friend to cry. Cowardly, that’s me.
I hate when they blowdry all the little bits of hair off your shoulders and directly into your handbag. I don’t want to take away a bag of my own hair. I went to get rid of it, not keep it. I hate when they don’t brush away the hair that’s blatantly in your eyes while they’re cutting your fringe and it tickles and itches.
I hate when you get to the counter and they add on a random it’s-a-Saturday-blowdry charge, even though when I leave my hair is usually about 6mm long and it’s so fine it has dried while they’ve cut it anyway.
I hate when they try to get you to book your next appointment then and there which in turn forces you to give away the game that maybe you’re not happy by rejecting their offer.
And if you happen to like them and think they’ve given you a good cut you’re doomed anyway because in 10 months time when you’re ready for your next cut they’ve left the salon, and possibly the country, and you’re back to square one.
I’m at square one. Tomorrow. 15:15. I’m booked with Bella. I’ll try not to carry all this baggage into the salon with me. I’ll leave it all right here.
**UPDATE: I survived the experience! I did get charged an extra £15 because apparently I was ‘changing my style’ rather than just having a cut. The cheek! To check out my new dazzling hair have a look here.**