My new hair do(n’t)
I’ve just got back from the hairdresser. Argh!
I wasn’t too keen on going to a hairdresser, not having visited one since I was a schoolkid (many, many, many moons ago) but I thought that I really needed to, as the ends of my hair were bleached to buggery and it wasn’t unknown for them to be split now and then. It really did need a good tidy up.
It was a truly nerve–wracking experience, walking into that unholy den of œstrogen. The oldest biddy in the joint — who I assumed was the chief dresser–of–hair — wasn’t slow in giving me the dirties. However, I bit the bullet, plonked my arse down in the (what appeared to be) repurposed dentist’s chair and sat very still, awaiting the arrival of a scissor–wielding maniac.
The hairdresser I was assigned — a young lass of probably Spanish or Italian stock — was very friendly, which I gathered more from her encouraging smiles rather than what she said (I wasn’t able to understand most of it for her strong accent) but surprisingly I felt at ease, even with the evil-looking crone peering at me from behind the back of another customer’s shorn head.
Thence came the dampening, the drying, the combing and cutting, smipping and shaving, feathering and layering, trimming and shearing, resulting in a mass of chunks of hairy blue fragments on the cutting room floor. Egads!
Is it usual for them to ask if you want to take the cuttings home in a bag? I thought this a strange custom, so I declined politely explaining that I supposed that the cat would be inclined to try and ingest it, which is probably likely considering the frequency of her miaowing to be fed.
And the price? I was expecting it to be in the order of £60-70, but it turned out to be a nice round £16. Bargain!
Result: I’m now the proud owner of a feathered, long–ish bob (a “bobby” perhaps?). Now, I just have to pour half a gallon of bleach and midnight blue dye onto it to complete the look. Oh, and a good crimping. :-)