Hairdressers, you make me curl up and dye.

When I was a child I used to wonder why you paid a hairdresser when essentially you gave them your hair. They swept it up and, as far as I could fathom, kept it.

My understanding of crimpery hasn’t got any better over the years. Put it this way, I can’t work out why perms were such a bad thing. I liked mine – it meant I didn’t need to faff about with it. Just wash n go like the ad. I live quietly in hope that they’ll come back.

I don’t get the hair straightener thing at all. I’ve got straight hair, why would I want to? The few times I’ve had it done my hair sort of just hangs all bleugh.

A few pounds (OK, stones) ago I had short spiky hair. I liked this a lot – dry upside down and put stuff in it to make it stick up. The only time this came unstuck was hillwalking in the rain. Here I learned just how much ‘product’ stings.

On the subject, what’s with ‘product’? What happened to ‘some products’, ‘items to style your hair’ or ‘things produced to glue your do’?

And I really, really don’t understand why the aforementioned product must be offered to me in all its overpriced glory at the point I’m shelling out quite enough, thank you. I don’t want to buy mousse, wax (wet or dry), gel, lotion, serum or anything else of that nature when it costs the same as a new car tyre.

Product and I haven’t historically got along. I had a go at home-colouring a while back. It was during a short-lived half marathon campaign. There I was newly daubed aubergine/plumb/reddybrown and jogging gently through the drizzle. Quite pleased with myself actually, until I passed my friend. “Oh my gosh, Ellen, what have you done? Are you OK?” She grabbed my arm.
My fresh paint job was not so permanent as the packet suggested and was bleeding dramatically down my head.

My current barnet maintenance emporium is a reasonably nice place to spend a couple of hours (although girls, please stop smoking downstairs, in fact, just stop smoking). I turned a corner with it when I discovered their broadband connection – have netbook will be able to ignore fatuous holiday-based questions and get some work done. However, they got a new hub and can’t find/get/remember the password so now I’m netless which is much less satisfactory.

Today my relationship with the whole getting the hair done experience hit a new low. I got a tilty-headed, sharp intake of breath from the ‘stylist’. And I flippin’ well felt guilty about it. It’s my head, surely I can do what I like to it and then just continue to pay the plenty to get them to fix it when it goes horribly wrong. In this case though, it hadn’t gone even slightly wrong. I quite liked it.

A couple of weeks ago, I coloured it myself. Screwing my courage to the sticking point and ignoring my previous colouring humiliation. Persuaded by sponsorship, I had another go. This time it was really easy and the colour looked fine… until I got in front of the mirror today. Could someone please explain exactly what’s wrong with dying your own hair from time to time?

Pic: self portrait with hair.

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  1. says

    I've always chosen my hairdresser based on how close they are to my front door. Don't ask me why? Except that I find it satisfying to say that as if to prove I'm not really interested in going to the hairdresser at all.

    But I'm rather pleased now that a sensible man – whom I really like – cuts my hair, understands I don't like to faff with it and it takes me under a minute to get to his saloon from my home.

    He does colour it tho' I've never had the guts to do it myself in case I get it all done wrong.

    And like you, I've never understood straighteners…and I really liked it when perms were in. Such is the lot of girls with very straight hair.

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