Settle down...

Ah, the joy of a new hairdresser. 

For the past five years, I have been hauling my barnet around various salons trying to find the impossible.  This would be a good stylist who can understand my daft curly hair and who can colour it to disguise the rampaging grey.  All of this to be done without the need for a second mortgage or the sale of a kidney.  I have lurched from high end salon (massaging chairs, teapot of fresh Earl Grey with cupcake, flowers on the reception counter, fragrant candles, beautiful staff and hip music) to budget salon (wire brush and Dettol, chipped mug of instant coffee, cheap leggings and Boyz2Men on repeat).  

I have been going to one salon since Christmas, and the young girl who does my colour is a cross between a miracle worker and a Dulux paint chart, and I am always thrilled with what she does.  She's also extremely chatty and lovely.  However, the last time she cut my hair, I came out feeling that not enough had been removed.  I tried to go back yesterday, but there were no appointments, so in a bit of a panic buy, borne out of sheer desperation that my hair was starting to resemble a well used Brillo pad, I made an appointment at another salon in my town.  One which I'd never frequented before.

It was very glamorous in there, and in my walking boots, jeans and old jumper I felt like I should have been bringing the coal in rather than sitting in front of the mirror while the stylist clipped away.  But having had a consultation with the even more glamorous stylist, we agreed that drastic measures were needed with 'an inch being removed all over'.  This may not sound a lot to you straighties out there, but to a curly girl, this equates to around six inches of length.  I watched the hair disappear onto the floor while she chatted away, and she then insisted on getting the hairdryer out to 'show me what was possible with curly hair'.  

Well the curls came back for sure.  Unfortunately, they were piled up on my head like a hat of bees, and as she finished, I mourned the fact that a) I had parked the car some distance away, b) I'd left my hat at home and c) It wasn't raining.  But I could see the potential behind the curly cap, so avoiding eye contact with anyone on the way back to the car, I then drove to see Mrs H (the lady who stops my face from disappearing into the folds of my decolletage and who is also a miracle worker). 

'I've had it all cut back', I said to Mrs H.  As I said this, I wondered whether she might be thinking that I was alluding to the rampant Black Elder in my back garden, but her raised eyebrows said it all. 'Oh, that's what you've had done, is it?'

I couldn't wait to get back home so that I could stick my head under the tap and get my hair falling down each side of my face.  Having laid down on Mrs H's couch for an hour, I now had a completely flat back to my head, with the remaining curls squished out either side of my ears.  The husband was in when I got home, and I started wondering what on earth he would say.  He loves my curls, and spent the best part of 2016 in mourning when I went straight (talking about the hair here, and not a previous life of crime).

Naturally, he didn't notice a thing (husbands, eh?), and I rushed upstairs and did a quick restyle courtesy of hot water and some mousse.

Did he notice then?  Well what do you think?

Anyway, I love my hair, so will be going back there for my next cut.  

Might put a bit of lippy on next time though...