Last week I went to my hairdresser. I feel so spoilt saying ‘my hairdresser’; well the pretty young thing I had started to call my hairdresser. Brilliant she was. So brilliant was she; people asked me who cut your hair? Now that totes brilliance; either that or they could see the difference between her cut and my home cuts. So I loved her. She was everything a young hairdresser should be chatty although perhaps too chatty. Although given that she was all of 21 and it seems to be the thing telling the world everything about yourself in the first ten minutes. Says me who writes a blog about her life; yes well enough said. So in the first ten minutes of meeting her I had come to know about her best friend wanting to be like her; her overzealous boyfriend and the progress of her new boob job. What? But she came recommended, had a good hair cut herself and had a little smarts about her. I liked her a lot. She did indeed give a good cut and she gave the best shampoo and head massage. Ever.
Notice I’m speaking about her like she had died; well sort of, because well she has moved. Away. Forever. Not for the bright lights of some glamorous city to which I would be more than happy to accept. No she has not run away to Melbourne, Paris or New York. But Casino and no I don’t no where that is.
I’m more than upset. It has taken me years of living here and many many dodgy hairdressers to find the right one. It’s like finding a seamstress (and unless your 5 ft1 you will never ever know the needs of a good tailor), beautician, dentist and doctor. They become part of your personal entourage the people behind helping you feel and look good. So losing her as part of ‘my entourage’ has been a let down bigger than a Britney Spears concert.
So when I arrived at the salon and found out she had gone I was devastated. And I must have gone in to a momentary lapse of concentration because well thought I would give the owner of the salon a go because I could see by her books she was empty and I needed a haircut. The alarm bells should have been going off. I should have been running. Should have been but I believe the loss of my beloved hairdresser had sent me into a brain grief freeze thing that I cannot explain. That and my hair was starting to get a little out of control and I had already arranged the sitter. I had waited weeks for the massage, the mindless chatter and a reason to sit and not feel guilty.
So I was there, my hair was out of control and well how does one say no thank you to a women smiling there in a empty salon with a skunk doo going on saying to me I can still cut it for you, I have the time. Ah yes; yes you do. I know why but I ask again really how does one say no?
Now I don’t get the skunk doo. By skunk doo in case that term is reserved for my part of the world is when the hair its blonde on top and dark underneath and I don’t mean by subtle shade of brown. Its skunk like. Its black and white. And whilst I’m no fashionista I’m still at 101 mastering the classics and the wonders of hair spray but to me the skunk doo looks ridiculous on most over 30. However there are exceptions and to many it’s obviously very fashionable given the number of women out and about in the skunk hair doo but these are the same ones in Ugg boots and its 28 degrees out..
So I sat in the chair. What do you want she asked? Just a trim including the layers I said with I’m sure the sound of hope and desperation in my voice. I didn’t want to judge I mean look at Vivienne Westwood. Who would have thought such talent could come from someone who essentially looks like a Prohart disaster on legs. So there I sat. There was no chit chat. There was no wash. There was no massage. There was nothing but the sound of snip, snip ringing in my ears. I closed my eyes. I bowed my head and I prayed.
And I should have known that no matter how much I prayed to god. He won’t answer because he and I don’t have a relationship so to speak…maybe that’s the problem. He is punishing me.
So how bad is it?
Mullet bad. It’s a mullet.
Typically I thanked her.
It’s a mullet. What else can one say? Thank you for throwing me back into the eighties?
My friends have tried to tell me I’m in fashion. Its an EMO cut what the hell that is(care to enlighten me) I don’t know but I have twelve days to learn the mastering style of the mullet or emo cut before FIFO husband comes home.
Tell me have you ever received a mullet cut smiled, thanked them and paid them for it? Only to go home and cry?
Have a great Thursday.
Xx Deb
