Cut, blow dry and a little something extra

(Written 2pm, Monday 17th July)

On Thursday, in one of a few select beauty preparations I indulged in before today’s journey, I got my hair cut.

I have heard from tales of women who adore the pampering, the excitement, the experience of the salon. However visiting the hairdressers is something I can only say that I endure.

I spent years getting my hair cut obscenely and unflatteringly short for my round face so that I didn’t have to go so often and could get my money’s worth.

This time, however, I have had very little off the length (finally, I am hoping, that I have learnt my lesson, although once sat in the chair cowering beneath the hairdresser, I unfortunately have little control over my vocal chords and my tongue will ravel off whatever it sees fit) and have instead concentrated on trimming ‘unsightly’ (apparently) split ends and trying to thin the unruly mop somewhat from its garden hedge status.

So after delivering my rather vague instructions (littered with ‘if you think that’s a good idea’s’ and ‘something like that anyway’s’ and ‘okay, we’ll go with that idea’s’), I sat down to have my hair washed.

There are two reasons why I dislike visiting the hairdressers so much. One is that I loathe small talk and am utterly terrible at it unless it is with an old person (when I seem to have a natural ability in talking about the weather for extended periods of time). I will do anything I can to steer the conversation off myself and onto the hairdresser so I don’t have to reply to the inane ‘so where are you going on holiday this year’ (this particular hairdresser asked me this even though I’d just told her I was going to New Zealand for a month) and whatever questions they will promptly filter out the responses to. If that fails, opting for silence is usually my effective plan B.

My second dislike is people touching my hair. My personal space is quite obscene at best, but touching my hair and, even worse, my head is something that I cannot bear. So getting my hair washed prior to my cut is never something that sits particularly well with me. Lie back and think of England, or anything that isn’t the fact that some stranger is touching one of my most sacred of places.

I endured the shampoo without too much agony. Then came the conditioner, which I assumed would follow a similar process.

I was wrong.

She ingrained the conditioner into my skull with some vigour. Okay, she was getting it clean. I did have the slight worry that my hair needed that much cleaning but whatever, she knew best.

Then she began to massage my skull.

At this point I started to panic. As she kneaded away she asked me ‘is that pressure okay?’. I responded in a slightly restrained voice ‘yeah fine’ despite my internal monologue screaming ‘what the hell is she doing?’ so loudly I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was trickling out through some facial orifice accidentally.

Time passed. She was still going.

Thoughts such as maybe this was costing me extra and was she coming on to me swept into my head (and, where the latter was concerned, left just as swiftly). Just as I thought she was letting up, she’d find some other part of my head to exploit. I imagine she must have been surprised at my (stunned) silence, as other customers will no doubt have expelled ecstatic moans of pleasure. I tried to move my concentration to reading the labels of the shampoo bottles in front but, constantly reminded of the goings-on above my eyelevel through a constant uncomfortable jerking and a sensation that continually swept through my body like hearing nails down a chalk board or seeing someone’s teeth clamp around a lollypop stick (another one of mine), my efforts went unappreciated by my sensory perception.

Eventually it ended and I thanked her, still in some shock. After that, my conversation with the hairdresser was a walk in the park.

I told my sister of the horror I had experienced earlier, as she had recommended me to these madmen.

She said hadn’t I enjoyed it and that was her favourite part.

I swore. A lot.

Next time I’ll see if they’ll let me wash my hair myself.