Scare cuts

Ok, when did you last have your haircut? In fact, my question should be “Have you ever had the misfortune to go to a XXXXXXXXX salon?”. Well, I have.

This chain of hairdressers can be found hidden away in tube stations or random shopping centres, usually in places like Bromley or anywhere in Essex. They charge a basic price, usually a tenner (bit of a clue there), and you do not need an appointment. You simply walk in and walk out a smiling, hair happy person. Um, not me.

Not that I am a XXXXXXXXX spotter, but the only people who ever seem to be in these salons are people who want an easy trim or a simple blow dry. And then people like me come along with their uncontrollable impulses. People like me who jump in right at the deep end. So on Monday night, I went to my underground Tescos and lo and behold, there was a XXXXXXXXX salon. Indeed, it was begging me to come and have a look. It was already quite late so I did not think they would be able to see me, perhaps I was testing them or testing myself to see how far I could go. Unfortunately they made me an appointment. I waited for half an hour. In this time I became more ambitious and thought, well I might as well go for a bob. XXXXXXXXX have to employ trained hairdressers I thought, trying to ignore the fact that one of them was a mullet head. I concentrated instead on the Paul Mitchell products by the till. My label antenna told me that with products like these then they had to be all right.

My turn soon came. I had been hoping I was going to get the pretty hairdresser with the nice sleek hair. Luckily the mullet stayed well away but instead I got something equally as frightening. My male hairdresser was Irish and drunk. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. He took me off to wash my hair and ended up washing my eyes with half the shampoo (Paul Mitchell). XXXXXXXXX don’t “do” towels, so I dripped back to my seat and sat down nervously. He picked up my hair in and in one clean sweep he began to chop. Fearing the attack of his scissors, I smiled meekly and told him I didn’t care what he did as long as it was even. He smiled a shark smile back at me and told me: “ We’ll see what we can do”.

He chopped along to Britney Spears and off it all went. Instead of the two inches I asked for, he took off four. And now I look like an elf, I look like I should be auditioning for a part in ‘Lord Of The Rings’. A mullet would probably have been better.

I am so displeased with my haircut that I considered having hair extensions. I even surfed the net to find out about them. Is that really vain? And can you believe that they cost £500 for a full head? £500!! I think the upshot of that little discovery would be that I shall remain elf-like for at least another couple of months…

Besides, having a haircut can sometimes be like splitting up with someone; you don’t realise how much you appreciated your long, luscious locks until they go. You grieve them for a little while, you don’t feel all that attractive and then suddenly the cloud disappears and you realise that in fact shorter hair is better. You have more freedom, more body, it’s in better condition and hey it doesn’t take as long to dry… even if you do look like an elf.