An account of my time at the hairdressers (From Watford Observer)

An account of my time at the hairdressers

9:43am Monday 22nd March 2010

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Earlier this week I spent a record amount of time in the hairdressers getting my hair ‘dip-dyed’. It cost me an extortionate amount of money and is already fading. It is dark chocolate brown, and it fades into a bright copper colour. I look extremely cool. I’m just joshing, I suppose it would depend on your definition of cool as to whether you would look at me in sheer awe or take a sneaky picture of me and ‘twitpic’ it along with a hilariously witty, but derogatory caption.

The entire hairdressers knew about ‘The Big Dye’, on the few occasions I had to ring HOB Salons the person answering the phone immediately knew who I was and the fact that I was going to be spending a ridiculous amount of time in that very place. This was what caused the initial fear inside of me.

I did not realise, or count on, having anything more than a natural colour fading into another equally natural colour. But when the colour technician presented to me a sample of bright orange, looking suspiciously luminous in the spotlighting of the salon. This was when I began to feel somewhat sick, and commenced planning a period of time as a recluse until the colour had grown out.

You see, I am weak, if an attendant in a shop offers me a snazzy new product that will in every way, make my life considerably more brilliant than it already is, I will wholeheartedly purchase it. Not because I believe them, but because I hold an undeniable need to make people think I’m nice. To be honest, they probably don’t care either way, so long as they don’t get paid on commission. So when a friendly hair technician who refers to me as ‘hun’, suggests a hairstyle that I in no way understand, but will cost me more than the earth, I agree with utter exuberance.

I ended up spending almost 5 hours sitting on a comfy leather chair, laden with hair dye and cotton wool and stuck to pieces of paper that I can only describe as wallpaper-like. The smell of hair spray and other such products will forever be incarcerated into my skin. My Heat magazine, which I had bought earlier to arrival was scooped up with the rest of the magazines in the salon, which, of course, I failed to mention because, again, I am a moron.

The girl who washed my hair, probably a college student who opted to do ‘hair and beauty’ because she can’t do ‘maffs’ or read anything more complex than the ‘Biff, Chip and Kipper’ books, was horrible and rough. She hurt my head. I considered filing a complaint, but again, I just did not have the balls. So instead I opted for an offensive tweet in her honour.

So after 4 and a half hours I head over to have a blow dry.

You know what the worst thing about having your hair done is? The fact that you are forced to stare at yourself for hours on end, depicting every little blemish and coming away with self-esteem considerably lower than when you arrived.

I like my hair, it’s a little brighter than I expected but I’m getting used to it.

See picture above for more details and please, let me know if you think I look like a **** [insert your own choice of an uncomplimentary title], and I’ll have Dave put acid in your eyes.

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