Yesterday, I got my hair did. This may not seem like a big deal but it was for me, for in actual fact I had not been to the hairdressers since November 2010, when I had my hair cut short for my marriage to James. In fact I would go so far as to say I have a mild form of weaslaphobia (fear of hairdressers).
I think it was the day before our ceremony and I went along to an appointment in this tiny little hair studio where my mum's hairdresser was based. When I arrived someone was sitting with their head in foils. I was slightly confused as there was only one hairdresser, but I put it from my mind. She went about wet cutting my hair (this is when they spray with water rather than wash it - always a dangerous method for hair as thick as mine) and after a little while said something like "Well that's all I have time for - I take it your mum told you I wouldn't have long?" Hmm. No. No she didn't.
Turns out James had told her not to tell me that there wasn't very much time because it would stress me out and upset me. He was right. Alas, I went home look like a mushroom that had grown hair and then been electrocuted. I then spent the next three months having to style my darn locks every morning. Oh there is something I should mention... I like low maintenance hair. Anything that has to be styled every day is the word's biggest no-no for me.
The memory of the November 2010 haircut, along with other horrifying hair memories, has somewhat put me off hairdressers. An earlier memory, for example, from when I was still at infant school is when my mum thought it would be a great idea for my sister and I to have pixie cuts. It was not a great idea.
Rather than look cute and dainty like the pixie cut made Emma Watson look... on a person like me - y'know, someone who isn't stunningly gorgeous with a top team of hair gurus at hand - it definitely could be described more along the boyish and butch kinda lines.
I remember thinking at the time of the haircut "Oh crap this is awful... this is terrible... this is badddd".I even tried to ask the hairdresser to cut it more when she asked if I was happy in desperation that it might look at all different. It made it worse.
So there I was, just a little thing of 6 or 7 with the world's worst haircut. My best friend from junior school once told me: "I would have been your best friend sooner except for that terrible hair cut. I didn't want people to think I was friends with you when you looked like that in case they hated me too". Suffice it to say that this is not a friendship that has stood the test of time.