Those of you who know a little bit about me will remember that I have this intense love/hate relationship with hairdressers.
I love hairdressers because of the head massages whilst they wash the hair, the compliments I get [my god, your hair just shines (ssshhh, don’t tell them I only use Head & Shoulders!), it’s so thick, it’s gorgeous], the fact that they always straighten it for me [I can’t do it myself – it’s too thick] and the way I feel about myself when I leave [which lasts until I next have to wash my hair].
However, I hate hairdressers almost as much as I hate dentists. It’s an incredibly intense social situation that I can’t get away from easily; I have to place my absolute trust in someone who maybe doesn’t know me very well and could leave me looking like a right banana; I never know what to say; I have to look at myself in the mirror; I have to let somebody else look at me in the mirror; I have to laugh at the amusing anecdotes of other customers and smile sweetly even when I can’t hear what’s being said over the noise of the hairdryers. Humpf.
I loved my hairdresser in Quaint Historic Market Town. She was funky, punky and made a yummy cappuccino. Since we moved I’ve only been to the hairdresser once. I chose a nice looking one here in FlatHickTown and off I trotted … to be faced with the Miserable Cutter of Doom. She wouldn’t straighten my hair and certainly wasn’t interested in my joyful tales of marriage because it would upset her regular old ladies expecting their regular blue rinses on their regular Saturday jaunts up the High Street.
So you’ll excuse me if I left it awhile before venturing to another one.
I now wish I hadn’t left it so long. She’s funky, she’s punky and I’m sure she makes a yummy cappuccino. Plus she loves doing wedding hair because she can prance around wearing tiaras.
Thank goshness for that.
I’m wearing my wedding shoes and desperately hoping that nobody knocks on the door because I’m not used to heels like these and in my haste I shall probably fall down the stairs and break my neck. This wouldn’t be a good thing. Surprisingly.
I wanted to write about Big Brother, but I realise I’m the only person I know who is so thoroughly addicted …
please God bless my beautifully straight and shiny hair xxx Elsabeth