Is there anything that have to do, on a regular basis, that you really hate doing? You know what I mean, it’s necessary, but if you could put it off you would and you find yourself always getting a teeny bit stressed the day before. Maybe it’s going to the dentist or monthly meetings at work, medical check ups, that kind of thing; the kind of appointment that you’re never going to forget because we don’t ever forget the things that we’re dreading……..Yes? You get where I’m coming from? Good, I’m so glad I’m not alone in this.
For me it’s going to the hairdresser. You heard right; the world of head massages, glossy magazines and heavenly smelling shampoos. Hate it! Why? Well, the reasons are many fold:
Firstly, my hair has a fear of hairdressers. For a week before I make an appointment it will lie around listlessly feeling sorry for itself; there’s a lot of infighting with small groups of hair doing their own thing and refusing to play well with others, that sort of thing. Then what happens? Lo and behold, the morning of the appointment, they all decide to work together and organise themselves into perfectly styled shininess. Damn them all the way to Hades!
By then it’s too late to cancel so, with a feeling of deep trepidation I head off to the
torture chamber salon. Now, as I have a pathological fear of being late, I will always have about 15 minutes to wait before I am called to the rack chair. I am usually offered a cup of coffee (which I refuse as I don’t want to have to ask someone who has a sharp implement held close to my ears where the toilets are) and a selection of magazines…..
They are either glossy magazines full of young model types looking beautifully vacant and slightly depressed or they are chocked full of equally stunning women with amazing hairstyles. I should have learned over the years to politely decline the magazines, along with the coffee, but I haven’t so I look at the lovely pictures.
At my designated appointment time I am escorted over to a workstation by a woman with perfect hair who sits me down in front of a mirror, over which has been placed, the kind of strip lighting that would make Elle McPherson reach for her bronzer and touche eclat!
At this point she will ask the dreaded question:
“So what are we going to do today?”
How the hell would I know? Why are you asking me that question? I don’t take my car in for a service and expect to tell the mechanic what he should be doing with it; I trust that he knows one end of a dipstick from the other and let him get on with it!
In response I generally pass over the magazine that I’ve been clutching in my sweaty little paw and point to a picture with a hopeful smile
“Something like that?”
“Hmm yes it’s lovely but the model has really thick hair and, in my experience, a cut doesn’t usually add length”
“Ha ha right no of course, well whatever you think……..”
No amount of
interrogation, gentle probing, by the slightly apprehensive looking stylist can illicit a more helpful response so she gets on with the job in hand and I sit there with my eyes closed silently praying.
After she has finished her ministrations
“There all done, what do you think?”
What a question to ask!! Now I’ve got to lie and live with a hairstyle I hate for the next few weeks until I have to go through the whole torturous experience again or I have to be honest and watch her face fall…
“Look, it’s not you, it’s my hair, honestly it’s hopeless” I gabble; I’m flushed and trying to stop my bottom lip from trembling
Resignedly I hand over my cash with a weak smile and walk out, convincing myself that it will look better once it’s grown in a bit and the colour has toned down a few shades……
Why oh why did they give me those bloody magazines? Why did I read them? I wouldn’t have had ridiculous expectations of a life-changing new style if I’d been reading Harry Potter (unless it was the bit where Hermione has discovered Sleakeazy’s hair potion). Oh well, I’ve got no-one to blame but myself……and all those gorgeous bloody young women with their stupid, shiny, perfect hair!
So, where am I off to today? Yep, you’ve guessed it – the hairdresser……..a new hairdresser (my old one who I’d got used to and could talk me off most hair related ledges has, rather inconsiderately, decided to be 8 months pregnant and stop working)……in Monaco…..where I will have to translate my neuroses into French. Meep!
I’ll report back later…………or I’ll be sorting through my collection of paper bags and trying them on for size….
If you’re off to do that thing you hate today please feel free to share your misery in the comments ;O)