Sunday, 12 September 2010

She came at me with scissors

I went to the hairdressers. We'd walked past it a few weeks ago, and I popped in on the off chance they'd take me. I got a trainee hairdresser and I pushed aside my fears and followed her to the basins. 


To backtrack: I hate hairdressers. I also hate salons and shops that sell make-ups and perfumes. The lighting is always harsh, the girls terrifying, and they scrutinize you and insult your pores, your hair, and talk of wrinkles and cellulite and sag...


So I was pretty brave today, walking in to the busy salon by myself.


Anyway. My trainee stylist...I didn't get her name. She was young and had a chubbiness in her cheeks and a small turn-y up-y nose, but not of the snotty judgemental variety. But I liked her because she didn't talk to me except for asking the important questions regarding my hair, she did what I think was a great job of cutting and drying and straightening and most important of all -she didn't f*&k with my fringe. (The vulgarity is for more than the alliteration).

 

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