Hairdressers are like your jeans or a Year 9 boyfriend: irrationally and completely irreplaceable- the idea of losing them sends you into panicky my-life-is-over moments. Until you realise that just like 14-year old boys, there are plenty more hormone driven fish in the sea ready to do weird things to your hair.
When we moved from the Gold Coast to the Sunshine Coast (two and a half hours drive north), I felt quite intelligent when I worked out I could use my hairdresser and needing a haircut as an excuse to visit all the friends I’d left behind every six to eight weeks. There are hairdressers here in Noosa, but I continued to make the pilgrimage down the M1 for five years due to a combination of laziness, fear and homesickness. And at the time it seemed completely normal: I know ladies who get on a plane to visit their hairdresser.
But it’s not normal. Most ‘normal’ people would simply have said a teary goodbye to the person they’d trusted taking sharp implements and/or noxious chemicals to their head and gone through a period of mediocre haircuts before they found another hairdresser who met their needs. I’m not really normal like that. Here are some examples:
- I have ‘difficult’ short curly hair which most people don’t know how to cut and I sure as hell ain’t got time for a blow dryer or -my eye is twitching- a hair straightener.
- I’ve dabbled in not washing my hair for SIX WEEKS AT A TIME because, amongst other things, I was tired of spending so long in the shower while my kids fought in the loungeroom and I yelled at them from the bathroom. (It’s hard to be a disciplinary figure when you’re covered in bubbles.)
- I let my husband cut my hair rather than take a punt on an unknown hairdresser. What could go wrong? Exhibit A:
So when Sussie started school and my life of packing up and running back down to the Gold Coast for haircuts was ruined, I knew I had to find a hairdresser up here. That or let Fiela cut my hair which I knew from actual real life experience, is not right. So I found one. And she did what she said she would and cut my hair in a manner which didn’t make me look like a munter who’d walked into a whipper snipper, much to my surprise and annoyance.
Instead of feeling wonderfully elated at finding a hairdresser in a 15 km radius of my house, I felt awful. Like I’d cheated on my real hairdresser with this other random. I went through a period of intense remorse and wondered whether I should send a message to my GC hairdresser explaining why I hadn’t called. Her Facebook updates kept coming up on my feed, all inspirational and wonderful and UNSUSPECTING- surely she’d figure out soon what my cheating mop of hair had been up to and GAH This Is Awkward.
Melodramatic? Of course. A bit ridiculous? Absolutely. Vindicated? Probably not. She runs a busy salon: as if she’s going to care about a hygienically unstable woman whose main demands for a haircut include being able to step out of the shower and look presentable without touching a hair grooming implement. But that’s how I felt and I don’t think I’m alone in having these unsettling emotions when we move from one perfectly suitable hairdresser to another. Why? Because these people shape who we look at in the mirror. They talk to us as we sit, hair wet and ugly looking and transform us into swans, gliding out of salon doors trailing cut locks behind us. The really good ones build a relationship with us, they become part of our Shewolf Pack- how do you just cut them out of your life? Your very identity?
Anyway, the stars aligned and I was on the Gold Coast and booked myself an appointment with my ex-hairdresser: the first in over a year. Oh the anticipation and the gloriousness of the salon and the ‘F-Bomb’ mug she gave me a fresh coffee in and the conversation about cat memes and videos and the haircut and just… the vibe.
I have strayed but I will always return.
Have you had a hairdressing melodrama? Keep chopping and changing or have you stuck with the same one for years?
Linking up with EssentiallyJess on #IBOT