An Unhealthy Relationship

I don’t think my hairdresser likes me very much.  “Why not get a new hairdresser?” you might ask, once you’ve finished laughing at what she’s done to my hair.  The problem is, I don’t think any hairdresser will like me – I’m not of their ilk and they know that.

Why I’m the sort of person that hairdressers dislike

  1. Conversation is awkward – I don’t watch soap operas or staged reality shows, which limits conversation.  Two years ago there was a golden era, where we both watched Masterchef and the chitchat really flowed.  I would time haircuts or restyles to coincide with Masterchef.  Unfortunately she stopped watching it and, after a period in which I would recount episodes in order to persuade her that she was really missing an awful lot of tough cooking, the subject was dropped.  I don’t like the music they like, I don’t fancy the same men that they like, we don’t socialise in the same places; it is AWKWAAARD.  My hairdresser runs the place with her sister, and their mother is really quite awful (from what they say) – sometimes I will make up gripes about my mum, just to fit in (though my main gripe “She never lets me pay for lunch” just doesn’t cut it!).
  2. I am not a proper woman in their eyes because I have hairy legs and will leave it a really long time to get my hair re-done.  My nails usually have a bit of bombay mix trapped down the back of them.  I like to sit and read books about the history of fonts.
  3. I will never buy any of the products that they try and flog me, because they are tested on animals.

There are therefore very good reasons to dislike me, but although she isn’t overtly hostile  she is clearly taking the piss:

Evidence that my hairdresser is clearly taking the piss

  • One time I went to get my fringe trimmed, and they were both out.  Even though I knew it was a terrible place, I went to the cheapy ‘No Appointment Required’ place across the road and they butchered me.  I was folically maimed.  When I went back to my hairdresser to help me get it sorted out, she asked if I’d gone to the place over the road and I lied and said I had gone to my mum’s hairdresser (mothers!). The worst part was that while they were sorting my hair out, another woman came in who had made the same error (but she had the balls to admit it).  For an hour they kept asking me “Are you sure you didn’t go over the road?”. That was three years ago, and yet it still gets mentioned every time I get my hair cut.
  • One time I had lots of layers put in and she said it was virtually a “Rachel” (this was in 2004 – so way too late to be in any way fashionable) – but didn’t tell me this until she’d finished.  She then put on a silly voice and said “How’s Brad Pitt?” and danced around the salon chanting “Jennifer Aniston” until I paid and left.  That was a bizarre one.
  • I recently had more fringe added, and now have a weird extra piece of short hair that is neither fringe nor rest-of-hair.  It likes to stick out of my head at a 90 degree angle.  When I went back for a trim she insisted that someone must have  surreptitiously cut my hair (“Have you been over the road again?”) and would not accept that she was the only person to have been near me with scissors in the last six months.  “Ah well,” she said, “Your hair grows like bloody grass anyway. It’ll come good”.
  • Despite strict instructions that my new hair role model is Claudia Winkelman (pictured below), she ALWAYS cuts my fringe too short.  And not just too short to be Claudia-like, it’s kooky short – which I’m not sure I’m able to carry, if I’m being honest, since I have a face that’s a bit like that of a petulant child who you’d want to smack (add that to the list) and a short fringe just accentuates the whole smackableness.

claudia_winkleman_526

Lovely Claudia and her delightful fringe

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Not quite this bad, but getting there

So, my options are as follows (I’m in a bullet-pointy kind of mood today):

  1. Grin and bear it. Suck it up. Woman up. And so on and so forth.  Develop a suitably kooky personality to go with the hair.
  2. Grow out the fringe, stop dying my hair. Never visit a hairdresser ever again.
  3. Train my boyfriend to cut hair (tell him it will improve his Starcraft skills and that his ability to defeat Zergs will improve tenfold if he can master the art of layering unruly hair).
  4. Find a new hairdresser.  Send out a questionnaire asking about favourite books, TV shows, views on politics, etc. and choose one based on compatibility.  I would also use this as an opportunity to find a hairdresser that doesn’t make coffee that tastes like Nescafe that has been filtered through a hairnet.
  5. Embrace a life of social exclusion, vilification, and mockery, and go across the road.

Of course it will now be months until my fringe is at the ideal Claudia level, so I will immediately forget all of this, leave it until it’s too late to really put any thought into it and then realise that I can’t see anything and need a hairdresser immediately and then I’ll find myself back in the arms of my abuser.  Perhaps one day I will find the strength to break these damned chains.

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3 responses »

  1. I am wetting my pant laughing. Hurrah for your too-short fringe. It has given me a much-needed belly laugh on a Monday morning.

    Go the first option.

  2. Yep! I’m like you only I have a good hairdresser now. She just smiles when I pull out my own shampoo and hands me the blower when she’s done because she knows I prefer to style it myself. Funny post, I can certainly relate.

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