Bad Hair Day.....

Two years ago, I decided that long stringy hair was NOT a good look for a woman in her mid-forties.The decision to have two feet of it lopped off was made easier by the disposal of my then boyfriend who liked long hair - his own included - and the fact that it was falling out of its own accord. (Both his AND mine!) Too chicken to get completely shorn at one go, it took me two trips to the hairdresser to finally sever my connection to my ‘do’ of ten years. Longer in fact, than it took to get over the aforementioned BF. Far from having a “Sampson” effect, I found that taking the short cut was strangely liberating, and I wish I’d had the guts to get rid of the hair (and boyfriend) years ago. Before the chop, it took ages to dry, and got in the way so much that I nearly always tied it up. (I’m talking about my hair here people.....) Nowadays, I can just hop out of bed, simply run my fingers through it and be off to work - hopefully remembering to get dressed before I leave the house!

For a while, me and the new ‘do’ get along famously. Then the fluorescent tube intervenes. I visit my customary crimper for a trim and one of the salon lights flickers incessantly, so wary of it inducing my first epileptic seizure in decades, I close my eyes while the Scissor-Mistress performs her magic.

BIG mistake.

We cover the usual banalities that must be dealt with in such a situation - holidays, offspring and work - and eventually, I realise that she has stopped chopping away at my lustrous locks. Taking this as my cue to open my eyes and say “Great, super - thanks!”, I open my eyes. Ye Gods! WHERE’D MY HAIR GO??
Cue startled-rabbit-caught-in-headlights look. The majority of my barnet lies in piles on the floor, and the remainder clings precariously to my scalp, terrified lest it too should go the same way. Being terribly British, and not one to make a scene, I pay up before the rest falls out in shock, and hare off home to fiddle with the tufts that remain.

After hours of fiddling, I manage to convince myself that freshly-shorn Elb is funky and trendy, but still scare myself witless when I catch sight of my reflection unexpectedly. Come to think of it, I get that anyway, because I still envisage myself as a lissom teenager whilst strutting around town, until shop windows cruelly affirm otherwise by showing a fat, middle-aged frump. But I digress. Having twiddled the remaining strands of hair to look somewhat decent, I go to bed content.....

And awake to the Hairdo from Hell.

The results of a restless night have alternately flattened and spiked my locks into the most unflattering look EVER, and no amount of coaxing can get it to behave. If I comb it, it goes as fluffy as a dandelion clock. Generous application of gloop, or ‘product’ (as the hairdresser calls it) leaves me resembling a well-used toilet brush. Gritting my teeth in frustration and extremely late for work, I turn on the shower again to wash it all out and start over.....

It’s enough to make you tear your hair out............