I gave up trying to style my hair a long time ago. We have an unspoken agreement – I will leave it alone and it limits the days that I look like I have lost an argument with a hedge. But that time has come again when, for both of our sakes, it needs a cut.
Now I purposely make sure this doesn’t happen often. Every six months is more than enough. It’s not that I like looking like Cousin It from the Adamms Family – I just don’t like haircuts.
First there’s the fun and games of trying to get an appointment. Then there only ever seems to be one avaliable for weeks and miles around. And never when you want it. So you either rush to make it or have to wile away the time with just the old dog-eared magazines to occupy you. Full of someone you have never heard of apparently seeing someone else you don’t know.
Then, having booked, there’s the days leading up to the cut where you ask friends, family or passing strangers what they think you should have done. However, if you are anything like me, all this is forgotten once cloaked and lowered into the chair. Instead I hear myself just agreeing to any suggestions they make. After all they are the ones with the scissors – I think it best not to argue.
Next it’s small-talk time. Which I actually quite like – in fact I find I’m the one asking the hairdresser if they have been away or have anything planned.
Then under a cloud of spray it is all over. And time to pay. Now I am very tight with money so you can imagine part of my dislike of the salon comes with the bill. Especially when you see signs outside barbers offering a cut for a fiver. But apparently I am not allowed a buzz cut, despite my logical and rational reasons for wanting one. I mean, it would be SO much easier to manage. However, I confess, when you step outside again it does feel great. And I find myself wondering why I don’t do it more often.