When you have a relatively short haircut, you should apparently get it trimmed every 6 weeks. I have a relatively short style and I last had it cut to cheer me up back when I was made redundant. At the beginning of July. Oops. In recent weeks I have started to look a bit like this:
Today I decided to do something about it and dragged myself from the warmth and comfort of the sofa to drive to Bluewater (also known at this time of year as the ninth circle of hell) and get it sorted. I know exactly the look that I want. It’s this:
The first time I had this sort of cut I very bravely took the above photo along to the salon, hoping the stylist wouldn’t laugh in my face at the very thought that I could look this fabulous. I had my self-deprecating speech all ready about knowing I was not going to look like a physically perfect, elfin vampire goddess. Luckily it wasn’t needed as my stylist had the Alice cut so I decided to pretend I was being spontaneous and muttered something along the lines of “I quite like your cut actually, how about something like that?” Today I had decided not to take a photo of a supporting character in a cult teen movie. I was going to try to describe the cut. Or maybe just skip the pretence, accept the inevitable end result and ask the stylist to make me look like a fat, middle-aged lesbian.
Enter the salon. And I’ve got the stylist with the Alice from Twilight cut again. Result. This is going to be easy. “Just make me look like you” I say – not doing much to dispel the fat, middle-aged lesbian vibe. 45 minutes later and we’re all done. I’m £60 poorer and I look just like Alice from Twilight (if she was a fat, middle-aged lesbian, obviously). The experience had its low points
– the salon junior being so inept with her aim that the washing of my hair felt fairly similar to the description in The Sun this week of waterboarding
– the bloke next to me going on and on about how much fucking money he had and how his fucking missus had spent £3k on his fucking American Express card innit … before phoning her and telling her to book them a holiday “wherever you want in the world babe but make the flights upper class as I can afford it” Twat.
But, while even a senior stylist can’t polish a turd, she did make me look vaguely presentable. But of course, by tomorrow I’ll be back to looking like this: