Ever since I was a teenager, I’ve hated getting my hair cut. Maybe I hated it as a child too, I don’t remember that far back. I did used to have it cut about every three months. Then three months because four months and four months became six months. Six months became a year.
And one day I just stopped going.
I don’t think I’ve had my hair cut for about five years.
I always used to go to the same person, the person who’s cut my mum’s hair since she was in her 20s – and still cuts it now. He cuts my husband’s and my dad’s too. My mum says the nice thing about him is that you can trust him to do what you want.
BUT YOU CAN’T TRUST HIM. That’s the whole problem.
Because when I was 18, he cut too much off my hair. I was so horrified that I made him stop. I wouldn’t let him even out the other side, so I had wonky hair. I’d rather have wonky hair than short hair. It’s probably wonky to this day.
I was quite happy not having my hair cut. The condition wasn’t great, but it wasn’t getting any worse.
Then fate intervened. I won a haircut in a raffle. It was for one of the best hairdresser’s in town.
You know how I sleep badly and wake up worrying about things? I woke up worrying about that voucher. I had to use it because otherwise I would feel guilty for all the people who would have loved to win the voucher. But I didn’t want to use it. I didn’t want my hair cut.
My kids couldn’t believe I was actually going to book it and get it done, but I felt like I had no choice.
So I booked it. And I felt exactly like a lot of people feel when they go to the dentist.
The hairdresser’s was even busier and more fabulous than I’d imagined. It was beautifully decorated and with an incredible number of immaculate stylists. And so many chairs and sinks! I was quite overwhelmed by it all.
I didn’t fit in there. There was only one bright pink coat hanging with the understated dark coloured coats. Only one person who had to take her hoodie off because it would get tangled in the gown. All the customers were either young and glamorous or old ladies. There was no ‘in between ladies’ like me.
Did I want a ‘nice, relaxing head massage’ while I was having my hair washed? I didn’t. For me, the words ‘relaxing’ ‘nice’ and ‘massage’ shouldn’t be in the same sentence. The idea makes me skin crawl.
I’m pleased that the stylist talked to me beforehand. I had to tell her I didn’t like getting my hair cut and why. I was worried that in a beautiful place like that, they would feel obliged to do something fabulous with my hair when I didn’t even want to be there and I most definitely didn’t want more than a trim.
She said she would just take half an inch off all over. No layers, no evening it out. And she did.
She asked me how I wanted it blow dried and I said I didn’t mind. Because a blow dry isn’t a cut. If I didn’t like it, I could just brush it out or wash it out.
She dried my hair using big round brushes, which she kind of left hanging in my hair, like big rollers. The overall effect was a bit 1990s Jennifer Aniston, but it’s basically a tamer version of my own naturally wild hair.
I quite liked it.
I think it knocked about five years off me.
Now I’m not going to go rushing back to the hairdresser, but if I do go again in the next five years, I’m going to go the fancy one, not my mum’s old hairdresser.