Hairdress-iquette

I love getting my hair cut. It's a simple pleasure that can leave you feeling nice and pampered when you leave the salon. I go about once a year and let someone tackle the mess that is my hair.

I often don't have the time or money to go to the hairdressers frequently. I know my hair could do with a trim at least more than once a year, but this annual trip is routine for me.

But that's what makes it special.

It's that time of year again. Today, I get to walk in to that gorgeous soapy smell of a salon, wrap myself up in one of those crinkly, over-sized gowns and walk around in front of people with a dripping wet towel on my head - ears poking out either side.

It's when I sit with my head back in that slightly awkwardly shaped sink, the one that digs into your neck a little, and feel the bubbles working through my knotted ends, that I really start to relax.

That is until I think too much about what's going on. The reality of this relaxing situation is that some stranger is massaging their fingers through my scalp - seeing me at an angle that I don't think anyone else ever has.

Someone else is rather intimately touching my head, all the while asking about my day as if that would make it more normal.

Once that weirdly amazing complimentary head massage is over, I stride through the salon in what is effectively a large bin bag, to sit in the chair, ready for the chop.

The chop that you may often trust some stranger with. Fortunately, I've been seeing the same hairdresser, Jade, for at least three or four years. I trust her, because she knows my hair - probably better than she knows me.

She knows how thick, frizzy, knotty and unmanageable my hair is, and knows better than to blow dry it and leave it be. Getting my haircut is a full-blown operation of chopping, styling, hair products and more chopping.

Isn't it funny though, or maybe it's just me, but I tend to find that I can talk to hairdressers about anything. Obviously, with the amount that has to be done, getting my hair cut is not a quick fix, so conversation tends to stretch beyond small talk.

I find there's nothing worse than sitting in silence whilst someone else holds the cold metal of a pair of scissors so close to your neck, and you just have to sit there and stare at yourself in the mirror, judging every move they make on each strand of your vulnerable hair.

Then there is the etiquette, of course, speaking your mind and suggesting 'maybe that's too short,' or 'that's not short enough,' isn't an option. We all know that when they have finished this hair chopping masacre, that we will admire their work and exclaim 'it's lovely!', even if it's not quite what we asked for.

After these moments of doubt, before you can even muster up the courage to tell them to change it, they bring on the heat. I tend to find that I've been alright with the whole process so far, but as soon as that hairdryer switches on, chaos unfolds.

Hair is flying all about the place, those tiny bits from my freshly cut fringe falling into my eyes, up my nose, tempting me far too much to twitch and sneeze. Do I keep my eyes closed? I might look like a weirdo. But if I keep them open I might be blinded by a loose flying hair.

Then there's the pull of the hairbrush and dryer combination, which yanks my head one way whilst I do my best to sit still.

Of course, the small talk has subsided now, else we'd be having a shouting match over the whir of the hairdryer fan.

The tension in my shoulders and the pressure to keep still is the final step. The straighteners come close. Don't move. Don't get your ear burnt.

Then, breathe. The hair is dusted off your shoulders, the gown is tossed aside. You stand there with your glorified new do, which you know you'll dislike as soon as you get home and try and style it yourself because it's never as good as that first moment you see it complete.

But now it's done.

Shiny new hair.