As you now know, I’ll be spending Sunday’s having a well informed rant about something I take completely unfounded umbridge against.
Last week it was Waitrose.
This week, on the shit list of things I hate.
10 things I hate about the hairdressers.
The false sense of hope you have when flicking through the magazines, beneath a cloud of shampoo and peroxide fumes, that you will in fact walk out in less than hour looking like a down to earth, South London version of Cheryl Cole. Sassy.
Having a stranger come over, take your hair from the 4 year old Superdrug band holding it up in your version of a messy bun (read, scag-head chic) and umm and ahh at you for what feels like a week. “So how much do you want off, you’ve got a lot of dead ends?”.
I know I have, Debbie. That’s why I’m putting myself through this fresh hell.
Getting put in the death chair to have you hair washed and freely allowing your neck to get clamped into a sink and spending the following 10 minutes worrying if you’ll ever walk again.
The honest horror of walking over to your hairdressers station knowing full well that even if you’ve opted not to have a colour, at best, you’ll be staring at your own face for a full 45 minutes and will walk out of there wondering when your nose got so fucking wonky.
Having to tell aforementioned stranger about your plans for your annual leave for the next six months because you’re British so have an inane inability to just sit and be silent in the company of another without feeling painfully awkward and you don’t want to be the person that suggests you just plug in and listen to a podcast whilst she does her thing back there.
Being left for an hour with foils in your hair to allow your do to replicate that of a zebra crossing for the small cost of £150, and rather than sitting back and looking forward to the new confident you that will bounce out of the salon, you sit and enter sheer panic that your hair is in fact currently burning back up onto your scalp. Because, really, is this heat I’m feeling normal?
Having to listen to Janice and Michelle three seats down whiter on for the full hour and half about their sheer horror at the price of a loaf in their local Co-op whilst you sit there wondering if you’re ever going to have a fringe left.
Being quite openly judged by the hairdresser chopping away at your locks if you’re an at home dyer. Yes I do it myself, Debs. But when I have a meltdown on a Tuesday morning for finding my first greys of my twenties – Superdrug and £6.99 is far more appealing than you and 300 quid.
Wondering what version of maths hairdressers get taught as you look at the floor and see a foot of hair beneath your chair when you distinctly remember just asking for an inch off?
Looking at the finished article in the swift magician style mirror move that they perform on you and realising that you are not Cheryl Cole, the slight bounce your hair currently has to it will only last until the bus stop because it’s as thin as fuck and that you’ve just made yourself overdrawn for what basically boiled down to an hour of self loathing