Something for the Weekend?
2002-11-08 at 8:20 a.m.

 

An almost girly entry.

I'm thinking about getting a haircut. Trust me this is a big decision for me. Let me see... I last had my hair cut... 18 months ago.

It's long now. Nearly down to my waist. I think that's probably too much, so I'm going to go get it cut.

But I *hate* going to the hairdressers. Why is it I am normally a right-on-liberal-left-wing-socially-aware-full-on-feminist chick, but put me in a hairdressers and my legs turn to jelly and I fear saying something stupid in front of this immaculately coiffed and made up young woman?

It's a good job I don't have issues I tell you.

I don't know what it is. Well, I expect it's a consequence of me not knowing what they are talking about most of the time.. Bangs? Layers? Feathering? Anyone? And then hairdressers ask me whether I'd like it to look like X celebrity's. I have no idea, I never know who this celebrity is. So we're off to a bad start there then.

So I'm sitting in the chair, wearing that apron thing that supposed to stop hair getting on your clothes and falling down your back, but in fact channels all those really annoying small feathery (hey, look, I'm getting into this talk) bits of hair down your back. I think it's really there to stop me from moving. My hair is soaking wet, scraped back from my face. I never wear make-up so the harsh lights show up every little line and imperfection in my skin (and I'm pretty sure spots come out for the occasion. My haircut is like a spots prom). I have to take my glasses off, which renders me pretty much blind, so I'm squinting like Mole in Wind in the Willows at this unattractive vision in the mirror.

Then the hairdresser says something like.. 'I think feathering at the front to frame your face and layers towards the back to make it lighter and maybe some colour in there, a peachy blonde shade would suit your face shape.' By this time I thinking 'Nothing, sides maybe a paper bag would suit this face shape right fucking now, me dear'. But instead I'll mutter something about 'Just wanted a few inches off, just to get rid of the split ends I've noticed.......'. At which point a cry emerges from the hairdresser who examines my hair and will then proceed to say things like, 'Oh you have such lovely hair, but *look* at all these split ends, you should take better care of it. When was the last time you had your hair cut?' I mutter some nondescript reply, which is ok, because by then she's not listening. 'It must have been ages ago, what shampoo and conditioner do you use?' Again, I mutter something, normally about supermarket own brands and I get that disapproving look again.

So finally we can move onto the haircut itself. This is less bad. Although there is always an awkward moment when the hairdresser realises I can't do small-talk. 'What do you do for a living?', 'I'm a computer engineer and I'm also studying at home for a degree in Social Policy'. Peoples' eyes tend to glaze over at both. 'Going on holiday?', 'Nope'. 'Doing anything nice this weekend?' 'Going to watch some rugby then home to write an essay on the role of the family in shaping identity in contemporary Britain', '....'.

End of small talk. Then she'll finish cutting and blow-drying my hair in a silence that indicates her disdain for me. Shows me her handywork and I make try to make appropriately ecstatic noises. Then I'm allowed to get up and pay, and I always leave a goddamned tip. Then, I slink off out of the hairdressers and feel bad about myself for at least 2 hours.

Give me the fucking dentists any day.