There are certain things in life that you put off. That you ignore. That you sometimes actively avoid. Then you go and do them and you remember why it was that you should do them more often. One of these things is going to the dentist (mind you, the biggest plus of that is the fact that once it’s over you don’t need to go again for a while). For me, getting to the hairdresser is another.
I know that a haircut is something that I should be writing in my diary every six weeks, and anticipating with glee. But, to be perfectly honest, I’m not much good at maintenance. I tend to wait until everything goes to rack and ruin and then try to rebuild from the ground up, so to speak. My brand new (and fabulous) eyebrow queen has taken this matter in hand and scheduled me in for appointments for the next six months. She assures me that it is not necessary to allow my brows to fade to nothingness before retinting them. There will be no Mr Potato Head shock if I take her advice. So she says.
The hairdressing sorority has not been so proactive. I thought I was managing quarterly appointments. My stylist today informed me that it was more like every five months. Not a great average.
Part of the problem is the sameness of my hair. There is only so much you can do with boofy redness. Too short and it’s Raggedy Anne. Too long and it’s Beyonce – only redder.
The sudden (and profuse) proliferation of greys, however, suggests that I need to step up my game. I made the switch to permanent colour about a year ago – no more fading of the semi, with no roots to speak of. Now I get a stripe. Subtle, but stripey. People ask me if I’m tired. They ask me if I’ve ‘gone blonde’. No, I say, just washed out and grey. Thanks for asking.
This morning I went to get myself seen to. Waiting for my stylist, I sat and contemplated my face and hair under very bright lights. Hmmm. My stylist and I chatted about this and that – body image, air-brushing in magazines, holidays in Europe – as she applied the colour that she promised would lift my appearance from haggard to radiant. She shepherded me under the steamer, where I read a September issue of New Idea (nothing better than dated gossip, don’t you find?), and then directed me to the basin. Otherwise known as the Pay Off.
Every time I get my hair washed – with complimentary scalp massage – I find myself wondering if I could manage to fit it in three times a week. Snuggled under my enormous plastic bib, feet up, eyes closed, goosebumpy chills running from head to foot. Too good.
During my haircut, my stylist revealed to me – and the rest of the salon – that she and 15 of her friends had ‘made over’ someone’s house while they were off on their honeymoon. Repainted. Remodelled (‘We decided to lose a wall’). Renovated. Stunned silence followed this statement.
“They don’t know?” asked the woman in the seat next to me.
“Nope, it’ll be such a thrill!” trilled my stylist. “They’ll love it.”
“You hope,” said the woman.
The stylist didn’t even bat an eyelid, all the confidence of youth personified. “Of course they will,” she said. “It’s been like one of those home renovation shows. Everywhere you look, someone is knocking down a wall or painting or replastering. I wish I could be there when they got home.”
The woman next to me and I shared a look. “So do I!” we said, in harmony.
Apparently, they’re coming back on Sunday. I’m almost tempted to book myself in for another haircut next week just to find out what happened. Or maybe just a hairwash…
PS: I love this image by esan01, on etsy – my kind of princess!