Sunday, March 12, 2006
Having my hair cut has always been something of a traumatic experience. It's not for nothing that older girls at school used to shout 'birds nest' as I walked past.
It's thick, curly and very very frizzy. I came out of a hairdressers on the Kingsway in Swansea about thirteen years ago resembling a prize poodle.
It should, therefore, come as no surprise that my hair only gets the chop annually or even once in eighteen months. And yesterday was the day.
My mum and sister kept suggesting I go to a family friend who does a good job on their barnets. I wasn't convinved. My mum's hair is fine and straight. K.'s much less curly, much more controllable and most importantly she actually invests time in looking after it properly (something I am too lazy to do). I used to babysit for the person in question. Is she really old enough and sensible enough to do me justice?
I think J. was more nervous than me and thankfully this meant she did not throw caution to the wind (which is what usually happens when scissors meet my hair for the first time). The results are good. Exactly what I wanted.
She charges a tenth of the price of Tony and Guy and her pug sleeps on your lap, purring like a cat, while she goes about her business. How many hairdressers can you say that for? I'll be back in March 2007.