A new hairdresser
Last week I tried a new hairdresser. I had no choice: my regular stylists let me down: The snipper disappeared off to Europe for Christmas, while the colourist – my lovely “Hani” – left his job and hasn’t yet resurfaced in a new five-star palace masquerading as a hair salon.
So I took the advice of a friend and booked into a new-ish place in Media City. Due to my lack of time (nursery pick-up at 12), I had to make two trips to get the cut and colour done. The cut was first. It was okay. It looked nice for a few days but never hung right and started to look grown-out within days. I doubt I’ll go back there for another cut.
Then I had the colour done. I was a little disconcerted from the start when the chap doing it mixed up the colour before even saying hello to me, let alone discussing what I wanted. Even a perfunctory “Highlights? Blonde?” would have helped me think he cared in some way.
So I took it upon myself to explain about chunky highlights and breaking up my fine hair with some texture and wanting to look a bit vibrant for Christmas, while he looked disinterested and carried on slapping on this single colour with a comb (I think Hani uses three colours), and I sat there feeling increasingly tense and irritable.
It didn’t help when the lady next to me saw her new highlights and said how disappointingly dark they looked while the colourist shoved my head down the sink and pasted some block-dye onto the roots.
When I emerged from what could have been the longest head massage ever, all I saw in the mirror was uniform, biscuit-coloured hair. No blonde streaks (they always stand out when it’s wet) – just some sad-looking orange worms in a sea of Digestive. I wanted to cry. What a waste of two precious hours.
But then he dried it and something happened: the colour looked nice, and the last-minute root touch-up had hidden the greys. It’s slightly more muted than I’m used to but then I thought: I’m about to turn 40. Maybe muted isn’t such a bad thing.