hair-um scarum

Forgive me for this more-than-usually-self-involved blog.

This weekend I treated myself to a hair cut. I say 'treated' because as a girl, it's not an in-and-out job, it consists of 4 hours of consultation, wine, hair treatment, head massage, leisurely reading of magazines, hair colouring, wine, more consultations and then hair cut, blow dry, straighten and then......ta dah! The big (slightly squiffy) unveil, extreme makeover style, but without the appreciative audience in my case.

The only problem with this weekends treat, was that I booked late, and the Witches Hut only had a 'stylist'. The men amongst you will be thinking...and? But there are some key words missing here. [ ] stylist. The gap should be filled with a word such as 'senior', 'principle, ' even 'director'. AKA I'm not letting some newly qualified rookey edward scissorhands anywhere near my barnet. Why? Because it's not a normal barnet, it's unruly, it's wild and thick and well, it mostly looks horrendous.

So there I sat, with 'Michael' and his wild bleached blonde crop, feeling tense and sweaty palmed. Not even the 2nd glass of chardonnay (yeuch)calmed my nerves and this was before the hi-lites had even begun.

Girls, we all know, having hi-lites can be hit and miss. And when your hair was practically black last year and has a tonne of left over dye in it, this makes for even greater potential for disaster. So I sat, and I smiled politely and I died inside.

The worst bit was when Michael took out the foils to examine the hi-lites. I looked deep in his Eastern European eyes for signs of a reaction. ANYTHING. At this point a more qualified stylist (with a better 'bedside manner') would utter some words of reassurance, 'oh, yes this has taken very well' or 'this is exactly what I'd have hoped' but....nothing. And his eyes were devoid of life or emotion. I took this to be very very bad news and freaked out.

Turned out I had nothing to worry about, he'd nailed my hair colour, and he cut my hair into a funky little graduated bob with a fringe- for only £95. Can you believe it?

Ok it's very blonde, ash blonde and I know this will not be met by approval by any of my friends in Brighton (results of a drunk straw poll in Compton conclusively preferred brunette ali), but I know it's a winner. So never again will I live in fear of having my hair cut by a junior, but only this once. Lets face it, they need to get practice somewhere, I'd just rather it wasn't on me. I'm sticking to directors.

I finally emerged like a freakishly overgrown and hairy butterfly from her salon cocoon and floated dreamily into the pub, tossing my new mane. Steve met me with a big hug and a smile and said I looked gorgeous. Then I realised he was p*ssed. Really p*ssed.

Right then, onwards and upwards. Bloggers, please submit your e-free-writes to me to my hotmail throughout the course of the day, and I'll sort them and get them posted.