Got back from eating out last night to find that my hair looked like a haystack had exploded on my head. I hadn’t had a haircut since lockdown started so it was time to get back to the salon. Mind you, I haven’t been to the dentist or my GP in even longer, but no one else can see that so I shall continue to put those off. I rang up this morning and managed to get an appointment straight away. Sweet!
My hairdresser was new to me, his name was Michael and he seemed very nice. As I was getting my hair washed I listened in to the conversations around me. Mostly they were about how people had managed through lockdown. It seems the majority of Kiwis spent the time in an alcoholic haze, although possibly my sample size was not statistically significant. I ended up confessing to being a doctor, explaining why I worked through lockdown, which is something I usually avoid when I get my hair cut because it just seems to make the relationship more strained. Michael then told me of his previous experience with hospitals. He ruptured a meniscus in his knee a few years ago, and he obviously still remembers his visit to ED with some indignation, which was fair enough as he wasn’t treated that well. The doctor who first saw him said to the nurses outside his cubicle that he was “being dramatic” and could they just give him a whiff of gas and straighten out his leg. There was only a curtain between Michael and the medical team discussing him so of course he heard everything that was being said. The lesson here is that if you’re going to be dissing somebody, better make sure you’re out of earshot. Even better I suppose if you just treat people with respect all the time… it turns out they couldn’t just straighten his knee because it was locked by a bit of floating cartilage – whoops!
I spent over an hour at the hairdresser, which was made up of ten minutes of hair washing (lovely), fifteen minutes of cutting and then 45 minutes of having my scalp burnt by a hairdryer set to ‘nuclear’. When he’d asked me how I wanted my hair styled, I did try and say that he could just leave it wet and unstyled, I was only going straight home and didn’t have any plans, but it just seems to be impossible for hairdressers to allow this to happen. And to think that some women do their hair like this every single day. I would honestly prefer to be bald. So tedious.
The end result looks soft and flowing, but it’s so full of various unguents it actually feels like wire.
I always try to explain to hairdressers that I wear a hat every day at work, which explains my very low maintenance hair regime, but I suspect I’d be the same even if I worked in an office. Take me as I am, people, because I’m going to make zero effort.
I sent a photo of myself to our family chat, and the consensus was that I looked like I had been body snatched, or replaced by an evil twin. It did look nice though. Perhaps if I ever get married again I’ll get my hair styled beforehand (although as my hubby is still alive and kicking the possibility of that seems remote).
….
I’m fully aware that this isn’t my first rant about haircuts, but it’s been months since my last one, so I’m hoping you’ll forgive the familiar terrain.