Hairdresser Fear

Photograph taken by Ashley Ward Photography

Sometimes you just have to give in and let it happen. It’s part of life now; part of being a woman. You can avoid it all you like but try as you may, you must face it some time. Ladies, it’s time to go to the hairdressers.

DUN DUN DUN!

“So what’s the deal?” I hear you ask. BIG DEAL INDEED! Just a little trim? Throw in a few highlights? Might even get that fringe you’ve been flirting around recently? What could go wrong?

EVERYTHING! DODGY CUT! BAD COLOUR!

BALDNESS!

Like a lot of women nowadays, I spend time (that I could otherwise be spending productively) on wondering what I’d look like with a new style or colour, a new look that could transform my appearance completely. It certainly doesn’t help to look at photos of celebrity women all glammed up for a night out on the town, made up to perfection (exc. Katie Price of course) and ready to stun. I look at these photos and think “Hmm. Maybe I’d look good with that bob?” or sometimes even “Yeah! Katy Perry’s blue hair does like kinda cool!” and try to imagine my own face framed by these aspirational ‘dos’.

So when it comes to gathering up all my gumption and actually doing the physical deed of calling up a salon to book an appointment, it’s definitely after a lot of egging on from my braver side. My hair appointments tend to be down to peer pressure from myself. That little voice inside that whispers “What have you got to lose? Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. You’ll look great” before it slithers off into the darkness to think up ways of getting me to eat that second chocolate éclair.

I recently had my hair cut short – and by short I mean that invisible line that hovers between your jaw and your collar bone. I’d spent the last 18 months growing it long, almost as a starting from scratch template as I was getting married and wanted to have all options available to me regarding my upcoming bridal hairstyle. It paid off – I was styled with beautiful waves and a bit of it was up and there were fringey side bits by my face and a veil was put in. Sorry I can’t give more of a technical or professional account of it, but I’m no hairdresser. Anyway, it looked proper gorge and I was an angel on the day.

Photograph taken by Ashley Ward Photography

Then it all went terribly, terribly wrong. I guess the truth of it is that I got bored and fancied a change. Maybe I even had an early panic related to my wedding and feared that my husband might never think I’d look that beautiful again so I’d have to think up a way of keeping his interest. Surely if I looked different, like someone else, he wouldn’t get sick of me or feel trapped with one person? The fatal mistake there is of course I failed to realise that he chose to marry me because he wanted to be with me and wasn’t likely to get cold feet after the wedding ... So I had the chop. 18 months of not giving a damn and just letting my hair do what it wanted had been undone. Initially it felt good to save those crucial 3 minutes in the morning when I’d otherwise still be desperately drying my hair before having to leave for work. I felt light and free, perhaps even more grown up. So why don’t I feel this way now?

Photos. Oh my Lord. The photos came. What had first felt like a removal of dead long hair to make way for healthy shorter hair had been replaced by the realisation that I’d gone from Beauty to Worzel Gummidge. I felt cheated. The hairdresser had lied to me. Oh the sting in my heart from having given her a £10 tip...

Now the time has come again. The celebrity ladies have tempted me into trying another new look. I’m not gullible enough to fall for the old haircut line again, mind you. No. This time I’m booked in for highlights. I’m still not sure why to tell you the truth. Bored again probably. Or maybe desperate to do anything to change from the Worzel look and, erm, going a little blonde should help that?

Damn it.