Hair We Go Again

I need a haircut. Before I get a haircut, though, I need a hairdresser. This is traumatic. Hold me.

The thing is, I already have a hairdresser – or, rather, I had one. She is a friend of the family, and every six weeks she would come to my parents’ house and cut the family hair. (Not Rubin’s, obviously. That would cost more.) As of this month, though, Carol is hanging up her scissors/ shutting up shop/ no longer available to slap the back of my hand and tell me to NEVER CUT MY OWN FRINGE AGAIN.

So, I need to find a new hairdresser. This will be tricky because I’m not very good at having my hair cut. I seem to lack the “explaining-what-you-want-and-making-the-hairdresser-do-it” gene, and this makes every haircut a trial. And, I mean, it’s not even like I ask them to do anything difficult, either. I’ve had pretty much the same haircut since…. well, since always, really… and while I sometimes entertain brief flirtation with fringes/sideways fringes/long fringes, I’ve yet to ask for anything really, you know, out there.

(I’m not mentioning The Perm. Please don’t make me talk about The Perm.)

And OK, sometimes I turn up at the hairdressers with a picture clutched in my sweaty palms, which may or may not be off Sienna Miller (WHY? Why did I do that?) but I could show them a picture of Telly Savalas for all the difference it makes, because they always give me exactly the same haircut anyway. Always. And, lacking the giving-hairdressers-instructions gene as I am, there’s never a damn thing I can do about it. The conversation always goes like this:

Amber: I’d like it to look like this, please. *Shows photo of Sienna Miller*
Hairdresser: No, you can’t have it like that.
Amber: OK, just the usual, then.

Note the complete lack of normal human interaction in the above conversation. This is because I am also lacking the “making smalltalk” gene, so while all around us, stylists and their clients laugh happily together, totally Best Friends Forever, me and my stylist exist in a bubble of uncomfortable silence, broken only by awkward attempts at conversation:

Stylist: So, got any holidays booked this year?
Amber: YES! Yes, I am just back from Florida! Florida!
Stylist: Oh.
Amber: “…”

GOD, I hate having my hair cut. I really need to bite the bullet and find someone to do it, though, especially given that my idiot commenter, Blondie, has totally seen right through me, and deduced the truth: that all of my ranting about the redhead hatrz is but a flimsy smokescreen through which I try to hide the fact that I am actually deeply ashamed of my ugly red hair, and hey, maybe I should do as she suggests, and dye it? Maybe I should dye it blonde, and ask the stylist to make me look like Sienna Miller? Because that would totally rawk, to be sure!

OK, maybe not.

*  *  *

In other news, the third (and hopefully final) migraine of the season rocked up last night, thus proving something I have suspected for a long time now: that I have a brain tumour and am going to die. Oh, it’s a fun life, being a hypochondriac, and by “it’s a fun life” I mean “It’s absolutely no fun at all, and I am totally going to buy those boots I want now, because what’s the point in denying myself when I might die tomorrow?”  Yeah.