I badly need to get my hair done. It's gotten to the state where my hair is now three tone, black/grey (roots) and blonde (split ends).
I look like an aging 1980s rap star.
Only one problem. I'm scared of the hairdressers.
Not the hairdressers themselves, but the actual experience of going. It always goes the same disastrous way-
In Twenty Steps...
1. I turn up with a bunch of celebrity hair pics in hand and the dream of a barnet that will make me the sheeny groomed woman I long to be.
2. Am then sat down by scary alpha stylist, dressed in plasticy coat and subjected to indepth follicle analysic ie " it has a distinct straw like quality", " isn't it strange how its fine, yet frizzy all at the same time" and "your hair is shit".
3. In my vulnerable state I agree to go for an expensive full head of highlight in sumptuous gold and luxurious caramel, and delicate honey.
4. I am offered a glass of cheap white wine (it aint all bad).
5. I neck the cheap white wine and ask for another. Please.
6. The dye is slapped on, I 'read' a myriad of hair magazines and desperately try to avoid thru-mirror eye contact with scary alpha stylist.
7. Masterplan doesnt work and scary alpha stylist asks me if I'm going on holiday.
8. I answer "No" forlornly and hate scary alpha stylist for reminding me that I can't afford a holiday because I'm skint and (by train of thought) that my bikini no longer fits.
9. Am then shoved under space age hairdryer and chargrilled.
10. Junior stylist invites me to the sinks and washes out the dye. I think about statistics on the amount of strokes caused by neck over sink injuries.
11. I take the stylist chair again, and realise that sumptous gold, luxurious caramel and and delicate honey, are infact, straw yellow, bright orange and poo brown.
12. Console myself with the fact that my hair is wet and the colours will be better once it is dry.
13. Number 12 turns out not to be the case. Not at all.
14. SAS and myself decide on a trim, with a feathered diagonal fringe to flatter my round face.
15. SAS ignores number 14 and gives me a bob with a blunt fringe.
16. My head resembles a bowling ball wearing an orange 'Friar Tuck' style wig.
17. I try not to cry.
18. Scary alpha stylist shows me the back. I feel gutless as I mew "oooh, the cut is soo nice!" At this point I hate everyone, including myself.
19. I pay the extortionate fee, go into a tipping frenzy and run out of the salon doors, sobbing.
20. I arrive home in tears, put on a hat and vow that from now on, I will just do it myself
I look like an aging 1980s rap star.
Only one problem. I'm scared of the hairdressers.
Not the hairdressers themselves, but the actual experience of going. It always goes the same disastrous way-
In Twenty Steps...
1. I turn up with a bunch of celebrity hair pics in hand and the dream of a barnet that will make me the sheeny groomed woman I long to be.
2. Am then sat down by scary alpha stylist, dressed in plasticy coat and subjected to indepth follicle analysic ie " it has a distinct straw like quality", " isn't it strange how its fine, yet frizzy all at the same time" and "your hair is shit".
3. In my vulnerable state I agree to go for an expensive full head of highlight in sumptuous gold and luxurious caramel, and delicate honey.
4. I am offered a glass of cheap white wine (it aint all bad).
5. I neck the cheap white wine and ask for another. Please.
6. The dye is slapped on, I 'read' a myriad of hair magazines and desperately try to avoid thru-mirror eye contact with scary alpha stylist.
7. Masterplan doesnt work and scary alpha stylist asks me if I'm going on holiday.
8. I answer "No" forlornly and hate scary alpha stylist for reminding me that I can't afford a holiday because I'm skint and (by train of thought) that my bikini no longer fits.
9. Am then shoved under space age hairdryer and chargrilled.
10. Junior stylist invites me to the sinks and washes out the dye. I think about statistics on the amount of strokes caused by neck over sink injuries.
11. I take the stylist chair again, and realise that sumptous gold, luxurious caramel and and delicate honey, are infact, straw yellow, bright orange and poo brown.
12. Console myself with the fact that my hair is wet and the colours will be better once it is dry.
13. Number 12 turns out not to be the case. Not at all.
14. SAS and myself decide on a trim, with a feathered diagonal fringe to flatter my round face.
15. SAS ignores number 14 and gives me a bob with a blunt fringe.
16. My head resembles a bowling ball wearing an orange 'Friar Tuck' style wig.
17. I try not to cry.
18. Scary alpha stylist shows me the back. I feel gutless as I mew "oooh, the cut is soo nice!" At this point I hate everyone, including myself.
19. I pay the extortionate fee, go into a tipping frenzy and run out of the salon doors, sobbing.
20. I arrive home in tears, put on a hat and vow that from now on, I will just do it myself
