So I figure I should probably write the sequel to my previous post. The only problem is, it’s not very interesting. So I’m going to just give it to you in point form. That way you can have a story which is not to interesting to begin with, plus the added bonus of lazy writing. Enjoy.
- After I wrote my last post, many of you took the trouble to let me know you have a lovely friend/neighbour/sister-in-law who cuts hair in her garage/shed/living room and who is totally nice and easy to talk to. No. Just, no. This would add a whole other layer of awkwardness to the situation. What if they do a bad job and you want to break up with them but you can’t because they’re friends with your friend? Ugh. No.
But thank you for thinking of me.
- Still more people told me about some other super lady who comes to your house to cut your hair. Noooooooooo! No! I would have to clean the house thoroughly or risk the hairdresser silently judging me. Then if it all goes pear-shaped the hairdresser knows where I live. No thank you.
- Then, Lovely M suggested I get Pippi to cut my hair. Apparently Pippi is quite handy with a pair of scissors, even though she isn’t a professional hairdresser. But I had to say no. It’s not that I didn’t trust Pippi’s ability, it’s just that I have an irrational fear that if I turn my friend into my hairdresser, all friendship will cease and I will henceforth only be able to have stilted conversations with her about a reality tv show I do not watch. Plus I wanted to get it dyed too, and even though M was suggesting all manner of solutions to this problem involving a bottle of peroxide and a toothbrush, I ultimately decided to go with a professional.
- So, as it turns out, my visit to the hairdresser was fairly uneventful. I brought with me a small stack of Mollie Makes magazines which I borrowed from the library to save money (except that one of the magazines went missing, so now I have to pay a big library fine instead). The hairdresser was older than me and happy to keep conversation to a companionable minimum. It was kind of nice.
- Here is the photo I showed her at the start of our session:
- It was such a long time since I’d been to a salon that I was a little out of practice. I was so grateful that somebody was finally doing my hair that I didn’t boss the hairdresser too much about what I wanted. As a result, the dye job was a little odd and streaky and the colour was much more ashy than what I asked for. And the layering didn’t frame my face well.
- After this, the hairdresser gave me a blow wave, which made me look like a late-night televangelist’s wife named Robyn. Or Hope. Or maybe Candice.
- The next morning I scrutinised the colour in the full light of day. Had she given me grey streaks?
- So here is my ‘before’ photo. Incidentally, I thought this was my ‘sexy’ face. All these years, when I thought I was giving my husband a smouldering look, my face actually looked like this. Ugh. I think I need to practice raising my eyebrow suggestively at the mirror repeatedly until I get it right.
- So here I am, really:
It’s several weeks since I got my hair done and it’s settled in a lot better now. I even had a go fixing the layers myself with a pair of nail scissors. The next time I go to the hairdressers, I’ll be more specific about what I want.
The very thought is making me sweat icicles.