Saturday, 28 August 2010


With the offspring disappearing in different directions, and He-who-must-not-be-named setting off to watch Watford FC doing their best but not quite succeeding, I snuck off in search of sanctuary.

I could have gone to write in peace and quiet, but I could hear the call of the hairdressers. I had to hear this call because I certainly couldn’t see it through my fringe, which covered most of my nose.

I called my hairdressers' hoping to get an appointment with my regular stylist but SHE HAD MOVED ON!

I was stuck on the phone talking to the other stylist, the one who did blue-rinses, and the back-combing necessary to create works of arts on the heads’ of older ladies.
I wanted to say, “Oh, in that case I won’t bother. Where did Becky go?”
But I only got as far as the 'Oh' before I realised she would never tell me.
She said, “I’ll fit you in at 12:15  then?”
And I said, “Yes, thanks.” (While thinking: Arrgh!)

I hovered on my chair, unable to look at the hairdressing magazines. There are just too many scary cuts in there, and any one of them could have ended up on my head if Edwina Scissorhands had been employed as the replacement stylist.

As she approached from behind the curtain, masking the depths of Hades from the salon, I eyed the stylist suspiciously: checking out her clothes, hair cut and colour. (There was no evidence of an immediate need to run from the premises; no need to panic.)

First, we chatted colour by numbers –  that went well – she talked me out of carrot red with the crimson lowlights (just testing). When she started to comb my hair forward, discussing (a slight variation) an entirely new style, I started to relax. I was so chilled I read heaps of magazines, right at the moment I can only remember one extraordinary fact:
Did you know that next time you cut your finger you could put pepper on it? Anti-septic and guaranteed not to sing!
Isn’t it amazing what you learn in the sanctuary of the hairdressers.

If I hadn’t ended my day watching Manchester United taking West Ham apart, and going for a curry, I’d do a new photo for the blog. Happily, there was more than sweet lassi flowing. 

Phew sanctuary on Saturday: hair-style.

Do you find sitting in the stylist's chair almost as nerve-wracking as a trip to the dentist? Or is it just me?


  1. I'm lucky my sister-in-law is my hairdresser - no worries! :)

  2. I find the stylist's chair very relaxing - especially when the stylist is my youngest daughter!

    I've had hairdressers "move on," which is very frustrating, and which makes me so happy to now be living close to my daughter (for a time I wasn't).

    Thanks for an interesting post.

  3. Hi Jemi
    Why did none of my "rellies" decide to take up a career in making my hair look good? Shame!;)

    Hi Ann
    I have a pump in the yard, you have hot and cold running hair treatments. I'm glad the green I'm glowing doesn't extend as far as my hair ;)

  4. I completely empathize here. I have the world's worst luck with hairdressers. Whenever I find one I love, he/she moves out of town, sells her business/drops dead (yes, that was incredibly sad) or quits the salon because the owner is a racist (that happened twice--if you can believe it--two hairdressers/ two different salons.) I tried a new hairdresser last week. She didn't actually make me look as if I'd cut my own hair with nail scissors, but she charged twice what any of the others charge. Makes me consider returning to the unkempt hippie look of my youth.

    BTW, getting my hair cut in England was less of a challenge when I learned that what we call "bangs" in the US is called "fringe" over there.