The first cut is the deepest or, how I learned to love hairdressers…

It occurred to me today that I have learned to love hairdressers ever since E was born. For many years I went about with uncut hair or, worse, self cut hair. I kept it up in a chignon-style thingy so it didn’t matter what it looked like.

And then, while I was having a brief crisis of confidence before going back to work, I visited the hairdresser. I’d been toying with having my hair cut the year before but my sister got married and I was a bridesmaid and it seemed like there was a hair uniform so we could all have ‘up dos’. But last year I went to the local salon (actually we have four local salons but I chose the nearest one that didn’t have a stupid name), told her that I wanted it got rid of and she gave me a bob. Since then I’ve gone every few months and had the bob maintained.

This morning I popped round, had my hair washed by a trainee and then cut by the senior dresser. They made me tea, looked after me and didn’t make too much conversation.

As much as I hate those adverts that tell you that you should have some pampering or some ‘me time’, especially when they are so often aimed at mums, there is something utterly lovely about having someone else wash your hair for you. Especially when they do it twice and then condition. I do find it very easy indeed to start nodding off in the hairdresser’s chair. This time round I forgot my tea and let it get a bit chilly. But I don’t really know why I do this now when in the past I’ve found hairdressers (the institution rather than the people who have always been very nice) to be such a pleasure now. I don’t think I’ve changed that much.

And yet, I guess there is something to be said to be doing something just for yourself. Even things like attending my reading group or sitting and writing my book, while things that are for me, carry with them some kind of responsibility. This doesn’t so it becomes a luxury rather than a chore. The problem, as I have said, is when this tiny act of personal grooming becomes an excuse for the beauty industry to foist all kinds of crap on you “because you’re worth it.” I’m actually worth more than a haircut, thanks very much.

This entry was posted in Motherhood, Observations and general nonsense and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to The first cut is the deepest or, how I learned to love hairdressers…

  1. Mum says:

    That’s what I miss by having Kelly come to me, she doesn’t wash it just uses a spray with water in.

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