So...
had my hair done the other day. I hate it. There has only ever been one 'like'
of my hair on record. That was over ten years ago.
Wednesday
midday
My
thought process, 'Yay I have a job interview! It's been a while since I had my
hair done, I'll go for a quick trim and
refresh of highlights."
First
mistake.
Thursday
10am
Sat
in the chair I'm trying to put my dream 'do into words for the lovely Louisa as
she unenthusiastically picks up strand after strand with a raised eyebrow.
"Yeah, I want platinum I think..."
Second
mistake.
Thursday
230pm
Text
from the boy, 'are you still at the hairdressers? You'll have no hair left
soon.' Oh to be a man who breezes through a ten minute £10 razor trim.
I
watch as Louisa boiffs and buffs my hair, bashing my head (accidentally) with a
barrel brush, wincing each time she blowdrys a strand. I hate feeling all
salonified, the price may aswell come with a 'LOOK! I'VE JUST HAD MY HAIR DONE.' sandwich board.
Thursday
310pm
As
I raise my eyebrows to try and reach my perfectly smooth (very) short, (very) blonde fringe, I avoid the
mirror. I look like Lady GaGa. A slightly dowdier, yellow haired Mum
version.
I
hate it. I hate it. I hate it.
"So,
what do you think?" Louisa beams a smug - didn't I do well - smile.
"I
love it." I fake a - no you did not - smile back.
I
hate it.
A numb bum for 5 hours, fictional holiday plans for small talk fodder and a whopping £165
(don't tell Mark) later, plus £5 tip and I'm leaving with hair I don't like... did I tell you I hate it.
Monday 1030am
Sat
eagerly in front of a potential boss, my short - looks like my Mum cut it - fringe
and bad highlights are all twisted back in an attempt to hide them and all I could think was,
"great, I look like I'm channelling Steps circa 1994."
I
hate going to the hairdressers.
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