Today I did one of those things I just hate to do: go for a haircut. It’s not that I’m particularly precious about my hair (in fact if I was in the last bit bothered about it I would probably actually go much more often), it’s more that whilst I’m generally relieved when I finally leave the room with considerably less hair than I managed to grow in the proceeding month (ok two months… ok three months), somehow the thought of going there just fills me with dread.
Now I realise I’m really in no position to talk here. As a man who has no interest in having his hair dyed or indeed having anything particularly special or interesting done to it other than it miraculously get shorter my hair appointments probably last in reality no more than 20 minutes or so. My wife on the other hand (along with pretty much every other girl I know) seemingly has to set aside a week and a half for a haircut, assuming that is that it’s nothing more complicated than a trim in which case you may need a good 6 months. So yes, I acknowledge that really going to the hairdresser’s is comparatively no effort at all on my part and yes I understand I’m probably also paying about a tenth of the price, but still I admit to being happier to look at myself in the mirror knowing my hair is completely out of control in a way that Harry Potter could scarcely dream of rather than take a short walk and experience a short period of sitting relatively still whilst someone else works hard to make my hair more, well, short.
I think my feelings about having my hair cut stem largely from childhood, perhaps from my toddler years where my mum was so happy to receive such lovely compliments about my lovely long golden locks that she was prepared to ignore the fact that said compliments were largely preceded by “what a pretty girl she is”. Once finally old enough to be able to persuade mum that I should actually have a boy hair cut we for many years went to the same hairdresser who would, without fail, ask me what style I wanted then systematically ignore everything I’d said and cut it the same way every time.
Even in recent years, having found a hairdresser that was at least willing to fein interest in what sort of style I would like I still found myself fearing every visit, knowing that inane chatter was almost inevitable despite my making it perfectly clear that I did not plan on going anywhere nice on my holidays but thanks for rubbing it in and confirming that it was indeed slightly chilly outside as it had been for the last dozen or so times I had been there. Worse still though was the fact that as this particular barber was one clearly frequented by lads that definitely did care enough about their hair to go more than once every four (ok six) months and that, during the period between entering with my hair gelled so securely that it somehow looked ok and leaving with my hair short enough to actually control without the assistance of glue, there would be a brief period where I would, once again look like a girl with stupidly long hair in front of people that would most certainly be judging me every which way. After all it’s not really ideal to have to cut your own hair before going to the hairdresser just to look less of a d***.
But today was a somewhat miraculous experience. Having visited a relatively new hairdresser for only a second time I found myself being quickly seated and able to explain what I wanted without having to pretend to know what grade I wanted the back and sides (erm… A*?) or indeed make inane chat about nothing. In fact so scarce was the unnecessary chat during this rather efficient haircut that I actually found myself asking whether she was going anywhere nice on her holidays. Better yet at the end of the haircut I didn’t even have to just accept the results with a cheery “yeah that’s great” whilst secretly loathing it as for once I seemed to have on my head some sort of actual hair “style” in roughly the way I wanted it… there’s a first for everything.
So perhaps I have stumbled upon the secret to good hair: deadly silence in the salon and a psychic link to let it be known that I don’t have a PHD in hairdressing and have no understanding of anything said hairdresser may be about to say to me. Or perhaps I should stop grumbling and go for a short world cruise whilst I wait for Dom’s return from the hairdressers. Ah, six weeks peace and quiet.
