by Clare Taylor (Thu Jul 30, 2009)
I'm willing to bet that if you visit Powder Room Graffiti regularly, you are a feisty sort of bird. You don't take any messing about. You don't suffer fools gladly. And you certainly know how to stand up for yourself. No shrinking violet, you.
And yet...
I'm also willing to bet that there is one person in your life who you really don't want to upset. Whose toes you never want to tread on, and for whom you will swallow the pithiest of put-downs and paint on the weakest of smiles as you fawn pathetically around them. Oh yes. You know who it is already, don't you?
Your hairdresser. Who is - in my considered opinion - far more likely to be able to reduce you to impotent tears of rage than your mother-in-law ever was (even in those far-distant days of arguments about the wedding guest list).
Is there any other non-medical appointment that is as likely to send you into a flat spin as this one? Here is a professional (at least, you hope they're professional), who with one swish of their sword - sorry, snip of their scissors - is capable of ruining both your self image and your social life for the next month.
Can you tell I got my hair cut last week? As ever, it's too short. I've nothing against short hair, you understand. For years that was me. But there comes a time - and in my case that time happened at the same moment the pillow creases on my face in the morning started to become a concern - that ‘short and sassy' starts to become ‘severe, middle-aged and boring.' Much better to hide the wrinkles behind a little extra hair, I decided.
There's just one problem.
My hairdresser doesn't buy into that theory.
Every time I go for a haircut, I say ‘Just a little off this time, please. I like to wear it longer these days.' And every time, she agrees. And cuts it prison-warder short. She even has the nerve to show me what she's done with the 3-way mirror trick. And what do I do? I sit there saying weakly ‘gosh yes, it's lovely, great, thankyou,' all the while actually thinking; ‘She must be able to hear me screaming Nooooooo inside my head? Surely she must?' And then I pay her handsomely for this act of grooming terrorism, leave the salon, mortified and cramming on dark glasses, and feverishly check my diary to see which social engagements I'm going to have to cancel over the next couple of weeks.
And let's not even get into the flip comments and character assassination you have to endure whilst you're ‘under the knife' so to speak.
Oh alright, let's. These doozies are too good not to share. Last week I mentioned how pleased I was to have been able to reach my goal of going to the gym three times a week for a year. My hairdresser's response? ‘Really? Perhaps you should start going four times a week. Then it might really start to make difference...' She deserved - at the very least - a sharp slap on the wrist for that. What did I say? ‘Oh, well, you could be right, I suppose...'
Or there was the day when, having made it to the salon relatively on time (what's 10 minutes between friends and when you're paying £55?), and quite proud of myself for getting there at all actually, my hairdresser sarcastically admired the baby sick that my youngest son had left attractively on the neck of my t-shirt, and which I'd missed in my pre-departure check. Of course I apologised profusely, when what I wanted to say was: ‘Hell, if I'm fully dressed and without a black bra under a white shirt, isn't that enough for you?'
I know, I know. I should change my hairdresser. But ladies, isn't that so much easier said than done? Have you ever tried ripping recommendations from friends unwilling to share the secret of where ‘Oh Nick, he's so fabulous!' actually works? Then there's the mandatory ‘getting to know you period' when - surprise surprise - they do what they want with your hair rather than what you want. Which, excuse me for stating the bleeding obvious, is the problem you already have.
So, on reflection, I think I will stick with the devil I know. I mean, she cuts hair like an angel. It's just a pity it's so short that I need to wear a hat. And a big black belt with handcuffs and a cosh attached.
