Out of the mouths of babes

Now I know that few will have sympathy for my current plight, so just listen up and laugh if you want to. My babysitting kidlets all did…

I’ve been hairdresser-shy for about six months now, after a fiasco cut and colour last May for which I paid a staggering £80. Since then I’ve lived in ponytails, waiting patiently for the hideous monstrosity to grow out. That is, until this week.

With my old work’s Christmas dinner looming (yep, I was invited) I really wanted to make a statement and stand out from the crowd. It was the perfect time to shed the ponytail and embrace the bob, so I looked online for the best salons. For perfection, I was prepared to pay!

And then, like all good Google surfers, I came across a ‘deal’. At Gina Conway Notting Hill they were offering a £10 razor haircut by one of their top stylists as he trained other members of staff. It was like the Gods of Saving Pennies were smiling down on me, so I called up and booked in my appointment. But as quickly as my good luck came my good luck skedaddled and the training session was postponed, until further notice. They told me they’d keep my name on the books but couldn’t guarantee when I’d be called back in. So I logged back online – now that I’d been offered a cut for almost nothing, the thought of paying retail seemed preposterous – and came across an ad on Gumtree: Free bob haircut this Wednesday only.

Ah hah… What was this?

This, it turned out was an opportunity to be a training stylists guinea pig and I, stupidly, signed up. I thought I asked the clever questions… How long had he been training? Three years. When did he graduate? “Oh I’ve already completed my college component,” he said. I figured what real damage could he do.

Severe, as it turned out. This guy took ‘slow and steady’ to the enth degree; to cut straight he had to constantly re-water my hair – upon the ever more aggravated advice of his tutor – which left my neck chilled and stiff. He cut higher and higher until inside I started to panic. But then like I so often do in these situations, I started to feel sorry for the guy; I root for the underdog. I mean he has to learn somehow, doesn’t he?

A pile of hair and almost three hours later he dusted me off and thanked me for my patience. I mumbled a, “You’re welcome. Thanks so much.” And made for a quick exit.

Really wanting to just go home and curl up into a ball – on the tube I looked jealously over at a Muslim girl in her hijab – instead I had to make the trek to go pick up Masters Nine and Twelve from school. Ever-considerate Master Nine looked at me quizzically for a moment and then commented that my head looked “weird”, while later that afternoon Miss Six more theatrically pointed and exclaimed, “I hate it.” Thanks chickens, that’s just what I needed.

My more adult friends have struggled to reassure me that the haircut isn’t all that bad but I can see the glint in their eyes and the strain on their faces as they attempt not to break into giggles. My head resembles that of a mushroom. I’m Madeline, mais dans la brune!