Hardressers? I’d Rather Curl Up And Dye

There’s a reason I always have crap hair and it’s because I’ve got a phobia of hairdressers.

When I say a phobia of hairdressers, it would be more accurate to describe the affliction as a phobia of awkward situations, of which sitting in front of a stranger and having them wash, cut and dye my hair, is the epitome.

Every visit I tell myself it will all be fine, that I manage to conduct myself in society relatively well amongst a mixture of people in an anxiety-free manner and so this is just another one of those situations, but it never is.

I envy with intensity those who have formed a friendship with a particular hairdresser and feel relaxed in their presence.

It’s always the same as soon as I sit in the chair. Perhaps it’s the height difference; the assumed superiority hierarchy of those with a higher eye-level. I am a lowly primate on a low down branch and I definitely know my place.

I turn into an apologetic, spineless wimp. Do what the hell you like with my hair! You know best! I’ll spuriously thankyouplease greatly no matter what it comes out like. I want her to like me. I know she doesn’t want to be at work on a Saturday, she wants to be shopping or at home with her boyfriend, but she’s got my swede to dress instead. And the guilt I feel about this further impedes me.

And so cue the frantic search by the hairdresser to find common ground, along the lines of:  “So, do you watch Mr & Mrs?”

I do, but it’s sort of a guilty pleasure that I don’t want anyone to know about. Can I blow my cool exterior this early into the cut? What the hell else are we going to talk about if I don’t? And so ensues a frivolous, boring, meaningless conversation about boring, meaningless TV shows.

And the pressure’s really on me to perform in this conversation; it’s not the hairdresser’s fault, she’s being paid to do this. I’m the one PAYING to do this, I should be enjoying it.

Invariably whatever my hair looks like at the final crescendo, the mirror-holding bit where I nod and smile, again spuriously, for an extended period of time, is not how I imagined it would look.

Sometimes I get used to the new cut as the day goes on, sometimes I don’t. I don’t get too disappointed if I don’t, the relief that I don’t have to set foot in another hairdresser’s for a good few months far outweighs either feeling.