For a few years now I’ve been cutting it myself. On top of my head I’ve only got a drift of anti-gravity fluff where most other people, not unreasonably, expect hair, and it seems a bit steep to actually pay to have half an inch cut off, feel OK about the shiny blow-dried result for a day and then get back to business as scruffy usual.
I’d rather go to the dentist, where at least I’m guaranteed not to leave looking worse than I went in, and the general tenor of the discourse is significantly higher, even with a mouthful of ironmongery.
My grandmother loved her hairdresser, but died in the chair whilst having her usual tight old-lady perm, which might have something to do with my attitude.
For more than a few years I’ve been having highlights put in – a standard defence against grey streaks.
This involves, every couple of months or so, the ritual humiliation of having to sit in a rubber cap, looking like Uncle Fester, while tufts of hair are pulled through holes by a pointy thing.
Then it’s Hello!, a long sit exposed to public view in a well-lit space, hiding behind magazines catching up with what Katie Price has been doing. Enough! Let the grey shine through!
But as the grey grew out more and more it was starting to look as though I smoked 60 fags a day and was filtering them through the tips of my hair.
Trying a new hairdresser, I didn’t imagine the confusion that asking to be more, not less, grey would cause. I was possibly the first ever person to ask for such a bizarre thing outside a Bateman cartoon. Discussions. Re-inforcements. (Hello Amy). Unlocking of something that was as guarded as the Controlled Drugs cupboard on an Intensive Care Ward. Mixing. Application. No Uncle Fester cap! Friendly chat (Natasha) and only chance for a brief glance at Katie and Kerry. Result! Thanks Sharon.