A Hairdresser’s Salon. I can remember the last time I visited one of these , before yesterday, was in advance of the Oaks in 2008 when Look Here won at 33/1 and I failed to take heed of the Eddie Ahern “sign” as he won as he liked in the last (Bellomi was it?). Please don’t think I haven’t had my hair chopped for 18 months though. It has been subject to a trim, but only under cottage industry conditions and the least said about it the better.
My aim in this post (something that apparently I should state in advance) is to illuminate the “makemea” bit in my moniker. Any self-respecting plain old Diva would clearly have visited the hairdressers since 2008. MakeMes tend to get all busy and distracted with the business of life and forget about stylish coiffures. Anyway with the thought of the car disintegrating in the garage and five assignments to be crafted, I decided what I needed to do now, above all else, was get a trim. So off I trotted like a very unprize pony to Toni & Guy. Well actually, first of all I called to see if they had any appointments.
Oh yes she said. We do – we have Becca 36 and Tash 45. I was dumbstruck, trying to work out who I would choose on account of their age. It seemed all a bit odd frankly. Then I twigged. She had omitted to say pounds. One of those little words that people like me appreciate to set the scene. After clarification, I chose the youngest stylist, figuring that scissors are scissors and hair is hair mostly.
So I arrived, on time for once, tried to walk into the gown like I was going in the stalls, whereas what was wanted was a reverse approach. I seem to remember I always get this wrong. If it’s a reverse job I walk straight in and vice versa. So far, so bad. Do I want tea. No. I want water. I always want water. If I’ve walked half a yard plus I want water. I think I am permanently dehydrated. This has nothing whatsoever to do with alcohol consumption you understand. So I get some water and a round chocolate. I drink the water and stick the chocolate in my handbag – it’s still there.
Then I get asked what I want viz the hair. Then I get asked if I want a drink, so I say yes please, thirst quenched, I’ll have a nice dehydrating tea. Then I issue my precise instructions: I like it long, but take off what you need to. I have a cow’s lick so part it there. Other than that, do what you like. The tea comes with another chocolate. I put the second chocolate in my bag. That’s still there too.
Back to the hair. My do what you want vague carry on cuts no ice or hair at Toni & Guy; they want blood. In fact they need the ins and outs of a duck’s arse before they will chop a lock.
I can’t really relate the next bit properly because it was incomprehensible. I felt like I was in Japan. I also felt like a fakemeamakemeadiva. Did I want a treatment? Did I want a head massage (no I bloody don’t and if you could wash my hair without touching that would be a good start). Did I want it flicked, or voluminous, or with weight, or with or without something I asked her to repeat twice and still couldn’t understand? Did I want blunt ends and layers and blahblahblah…
Listen, I felt like saying. I don’t care what you do to the back because I can’t see it and truthfully I would just like you to take ten years off me at the front because, as it stands, I can hardly bear to look at myself in these fucking awful mirrors you go in for.
As it was I said: no volume thanks, I already have a pointy head. And I pointed to the pointy bit so we were on the same page.
So she spent 5 minutes snipping and about 25 minutes drying, which made me think – this is why they are called hairdressers and not hairsnippers and then I did a forced smile when she showed me the back and thought I look as old as I did an hour ago and I paid her age in guineas plus a tip and went home.
I’ll go again in 2012 for the Olympics. I hope things have changed by then.