Bad Hair Day

                              




Every move sooner or later reaches the stage of me pulling my hair out. Not because I am that desperate but because I have to find a new hairdressers.

Let me start by saying that there are few things that I dislike more -  on my list a visit to the hairdresser would only be topped by going in for a cervix smear, or a root canal treatment - than having my hair cut. Just the whole back breaking exercise of having it washed is enough to put me in a bad mood. I never am comfortable, despite my politely uttered reassurance, with my neck resting on a rock solid plastic rim and water dripping in my ears. And why on earth you should shampoo and then condition your hair twice in a row is beyond me.
There was one blissful periode in England. After several visits to different hairdressers who invariably spend fifteen minutes cutting and a good hour blowdrying (styling!) your hair, we came accross a lovely lady who made house calls. She could cut, dry and style all four of us in an hour. And the best part: you could wash your own hair in your own shower. Cleaning the kitchen smothered in human hair seemed a small price to pay.
After our move to Italy it seemed neigh on impossibe to find a replacement. Luckily we found an old fashioned salon at the bottom of our street. The team of stylists consisted of mum, well into her sixties with a purple helmet of hair, her daughter, son in law and a ferocious, but impeccably groomed, orange poodle. The elderly head of the family made a mean espresso, so in Italy was deemed a valuable asset to the business. And so he was.
No premium espresso's were being served in Switzerland, where I decided to grow out my hair. Not so much as a fashion statement, but more so because for a long time I couldn't face the discussion about layers, fringes and blow drying techniques in yet another language. In the end I found the one place in Switzerland where you didn't need to book an appointment, so I could just walk in on days when I felt particularly courageous.
With hair almost as long as my 10yo daughter's, I felt that I couldn't postpone a trip to the hairdressers any longer. Since a friend (with lucious chestnut coloured wavy locks completely unlike my own limp blond excuse of a hairdo) recommended her hairdresser, I decided yesterday to take the plunge.
I really tried to ignore the water dripping in my ears and although I vowed that looking at my not so young face upclose in a mirror with my hair piled up high in unfashionable pink hair pins for a least an hour wasn't going to get me down, it did in the end.
I also discovered that language, contrary to my beliefs, doesn't play a part in my disliking of going to the hairdresser. Yesterday, I found that whilst being able to discuss my hair in my mothertongue I still didn't have anything to say about it.
To cowardly to admit that I more often than not leave the house in the morning with wet hair and that styling it is something that I have carefully avoided for years, I tell lies. Something that I manage to do so convincingly that I invariably come home with some useless and very expensive styling mousse or hair serum that I feigned to be interested in.
On the upside though I had enough of my wits about me yesterday to make the girl seriously trim my hair. It's much shorter than I have had it in years. So short in fact that I don't need another haircut for at least a year. Or two. In this timespan I might even manage to use the volume enhancing product that I bought. Or else it might look lovely next to the unused jar of boob dust in it's secret hiding place.