A trip to the salon for a new haircut or beauty treatment is considered by most to be an enjoyable experience. I on the other hand have always hated it, resulting in a bi-annual appearance to have my coiffeur tamed. While many women {and men} indulge in the latest gossip and leave feeling rather gorgeous I tend to run to the nearest mirror to re-adjust their hard work until I’m comfortable. Now, please don’t confuse me with some sort of bag lady weirdo. I do own a brush; I shower twice daily and undergo the regular routine of having my hair ripped from my brow by a bored teenager in an apron.

So, what is it that fills me with such dread? It’s the mandatory nature of forging soulless friendships with a stranger who needs to invade my personal space. I’m paying for a service and yet must retain a polite exterior should they decide to snip too near my face or pull weakly at the waxing strip. The talk of weekend plans and forthcoming holidays are batted back and forth with a dull level of interest. And this is why, for a short while I took to inventing stories.

Yes, in order to get through the 2-hour hairdressing appointment I’d discuss my demanding career in the stock market, invent trips to the Congo and even discuss how my made-up children were getting on at private school. It served to keep me entertained and made the process bearable. Over the years I have been to various salons and undergone some scarring treatment, so I see it as a coping mechanism.

Protruding at a 90-degree angle from my head is a lovely pair of ears- a guaranteed casualty especially if I’ve been assigned to the trainee who was out on the lash the night before. Scissors, straighteners and a sharp comb have all made contact with my inconveniently placed flesh. I’m also the recipient of several apologies for my deceptively dense hair; “I am sorry your hair is really…very…thick” to which I feel the need to apologise in return for making their job difficult. A second assistant is almost always tricked into blow-drying “oh…your hair is thicker than it first seems…” as they stop to rest their arms. Needless to say I always get my moneys worth, if not in satisfaction definitely in their sweat.

Sifting through my recent holiday snaps was a sobering experience. I was forced to find the nearest hairdresser and go for the chop. With a string of kirby’s imbedded near the scalp, my hair was going to cause no end of grief. The stylist introduced herself and asked what I was looking for, to which I instructed “no idea, go to town”. This I now know to be the best phrase used in hairdressing. Her eyes glazed over, the chat was kept to a minimum as she got stuck into my hair with fervour. She’d stop occasionally to keep me informed while I nodded and she’d smile. I was putting faith in a stranger’s ability and for once felt totally relaxed. She was taking care over her creation and in turn I began to feel what I imagine being pampered is all about- blissful.

Then it was all over and I felt compelled to swish my head from side to side and continued in this fashion all the way home. I hadn’t realised until then that finding the right stylist can make all the difference to what I childishly considered an ordeal. A bit of trust, an open mind and putting a lid on the lying helps. And since that first appointment I’ve been introduced to a fringe and colour. I’m practically a grown-up. ………………………………………………………………………………………………..
This article was published in Scotcampus (Feb 2010) www.scotcampus.com