People always say the dentist is the one appointment they dread to keep. Now if, like me, they’d met my sister, aka the loveliest dentist around, they’d know not to be scared. Indeed, let me bring to your attention the true black mark of the self-care world: the hairdresser.
Go on! Pamper yourself! They say. It’ll be a treat! They say. To me, a treat is stuffing my face with marshmallows and welling up to Frozen. What it is not is staring at my pale face in the mirror for an hour while someone who looks good for a living battles with my barnet.
Still, it has to be done.
I arrive to my appointment a cool 20 minutes early. They bring me coffee with a rose in a vase and a complimentary chocolate – so far it’s going better than most dates I’ve been on. However, here is where the niceties end. Of course, that could easily be because I accidentally tell the receptionist that I don’t trust hairdressers. At least one hairdresser hears me (bound to happen when you consider my location).
My ‘stylist’ is doing a men’s cut and will be free in half an hour. To be fair that would make her about on time for our appointment, but I can’t help but wonder how there is enough hair on the gentleman’s head to take thirty minutes? Don’t you just do a quick whip round with the razor? I could do that while she cuts mine.
While I wait I am whisked off to the sinks for my first round of punishment. The teenager washing my hair tries to put me at ease by giving me a soothing head massage. Unfortunately, given the (in my mind inextricable) link between massage and romance, this only serves to make me highly uncomfortable. The date has taken a turn for the seedy.
Freed at last and off to take my seat for my second torture: the trim. My stylist smiles with surprise and announces ‘well that was a lot easier than I thought’ as she combs through my unruly crop. Unsure of the correct response, I opt for a noncommittal laugh followed by a ‘yeah’.
She does her thing (cutting) and I do mine (trying not to make eye contact with myself or the hairdresser in the mirror) and eventually the deed is done for another six
weeks months. All that is left to do is hope and pray that the head lice scandal of last week was well and truly contained in the school.
Now that I stop to think about it, my only truly positive hair care experience was with a very nice gentleman in Leeds, and to be frank I am but one dry hair comment away from doing the three hour drive whenever I need a trim. Now if I had a job where people were forced to spend time with me on a regular basis, I’d make an effort to make their experience enjoyable.
Hang on a minute…