I cannot remember the last time I went to the hairdresser. My hair is curly, so all it usually needs is frequent washing. When it becomes too unruly or just gets on my nerves, I just lop some off or get Anita to do the back.
Just lately, my hair has been looking a bit tatty. This could be the effect of the radiotherapy, but whatever the reason, I thought I needed professional help for we have a family wedding coming up in July, and I shall want to look respectable. I usually look as though I have been pulled through a hedge backwards, so this was a significant move on my part. In Petersfield, where I live, there are about half a dozen hairdressers, so which one would I entrust with the job?
Truth be told, I didn’t really want to go. The thought of sitting in front of a mirror for any length of time makes me sick to my stomach. I swear they have special ‘ugly’ mirrors in these places, as I don’t seem to look quite as bad anywhere else.
The first place looked old, almost as old as Petersfield itself. Small and run down, but busy enough. I walked into the reception area to make an appointment, expecting someone to appear, but all the staff were busy, wielding hairdryers and scissors, chatting away, seemingly unaware of my presence. Not a good start, I thought.
Then I noticed how close together all the chairs were, you could shake hands with your neighbours without getting up. It was too hot and cramped and my brain began to object, supplying visions of battery farming, so I left. I doubt it ever registered I had been there.
The next one looked more promising. I had previously thought it was a photographer studio, what with its dark smoked glass windows, and glimpses of a posh reception desk.
The premises were large and expensively outfitted, reminding me of the fancy West End salons. Once through the door, I noticed all the workstations were artfully placed for maximum privacy. There was an air of exclusivity and I suddenly knew I wouldn’t be able to afford it.
The receptionist, an attractive girl in her early twenties, smiled at me as if I were an old friend and assured me I was in the right place. I must have looked doubtful, so she showed me the price list. Surprisingly, their prices were the same as most of the others, so I was sold.
Having made my selection and subsequent appointment, I found myself being interviewed as to my requirements. This was new. In my day, it wouldn’t matter what you said, you came away with precious little hair left, swearing never to darken that door again.
Then I was offered a complimentary glass of wine, which I declined. If they were hoping to get me drunk so I wouldn’t notice what they did to me, they were out of luck!
The salon itself was amazing, very modern with dark glassy tiles everywhere. I felt as though I were walking on water. Beautiful graphics on the walls added an expensive air to the place. I was welcomed like a valued customer and made to feel at ease. I still felt a little out of my comfort zone, stuck in front of the mirror, when a dog walked past me and proceeded to stroll around as though he owned the place. He stopped to say hello, then wandered off. I thought that was a nice touch.
For the next hour, I was pampered with various sweet smelling products and pleased to observe the frugal use of the scissors. Well I had said I didn’t want it any shorter, just tidier.
Most of my family said I didn’t look any different, and one member never noticed anything. So was it worth the £50 I spent?
I think so, if only for being treated like a queen for an hour and a half…
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