I had my hair cut! Not such a big deal, right?
Here’s what I have learnt from this latest experience:
If when you pop your head into the salon, you see an octogenarian client with a grey rinse in the styling chair, sporting a solid-looking, velcro-type hairstyle and you think she’s just arrived for her appointment, but is actually just being finished off – RUN!
Ignoring this early warning sign, we strolled in with confidence, already committed. The stylist proceeded to wash my hair even though I said I’d just done that thank you, dried it in a damp towel with a strong aroma of mould, then sat me down in front of the mirror and asked me if I wanted a L’Oreal.
I’m sorry, a what?
On reflection of course I should have asked her to explain what exactly a L’Oreal is, but she just held up a strand of my hair asked if that was short enough and snipped. I was speechless. And, seeing as it’s been a good 15 years since my last shorter than ‘quite long’ hair cut, really quite scared.
As the minutes ticked by, I could barely bring myself to look. I can’t see a thing without my glasses anyway, so there I was, mute and blind, with just the menacing sound of the scissors slashing around my ears.
If that weren’t stressful enough, the stylist then pointed to my upper lip and offered to whip off my ‘tache whilst she was at it. I know, right?! Tact was clearly not one of this lady’s strong points. If this service is what her usual clients get, then I’m not hopeful that this haircut is going to take years off me. Quite the opposite, indeed.
Resigning myself to the fact I was being turned into a 90-year-old, I was mildly disappointed I didn’t have to sit under one of those vintage hood dryers, but she did manage to sear my scalp whilst blow drying the “L’Oreal” into a strange, curled under ‘do.
Then me and my hair I had to sit IN PUBLIC waiting for Jeremy to be shorn (his cut went totally smoothly and looks fine, by the way) before I could run around the corner and stick my head in a puddle.
I don’t think I’ll be going back there.