Hair today, gone tomorrow

I had a traumatic experience this week, and only now do I feel able to talk about it. I went to the hairdresser. This is usually a lovely event; someone washes my hair for me and I look all shiny and new when I leave, and I feel all feminine, at least for a day or two. But my hairdresser, trusted confidante, she of the magic scissors, has left the salon and I have gone onto someone else's list.

It's not the same, the chemistry isn't there, when she asks me questions I just want to dive underneath my chair, although we were getting on okay-ish. Until:

The Fringe Incident.

I wanted it thinned out, just a little, she carved it up and sent me out looking like a two-year-old had been at my hair with blunt cutlery. It was all different lengths, jagged and choppy, nothing like my usual blunt cut. I wasn't happy.

But what could I do? Here's the dilemma; you can't tell a hairdresser that you're unhappy with her handiwork. So I just nodded, 'fine,' I said, while inside I cried. It's no over-reaction, men, please don't laugh, there's nothing good about paying twenty-three quid to look worse than when you came in.

Once home, I tried mousses and waxes and cursing and sobbing, but nothing made it look better. I had a play to review, and couldn't sit in the theatre wearing a hat, I'd look daft.

With some trepidation I marched back to the salon to ask if someone could straighten up my fringe. That was when my hairdresser, inflicter of my misery, stepped up to do her thing.
I was mortified, but tried to hide behind a barrage of small talk. My fringe got shorter, and shorter, and eventually I called a halt to her furious cutting technique.

It looked like my Nan's speciality pudding basin cut, showing far too much brow, but I put on a brave face, and when I got home, guess what I found?

It still wasn't bloody well straight!

Clare