Haircut from hell. Sort of.

“Just a quick trim,” I said to the hairdresser, as I nervously eased myself into the torture chair this morning. Well, we all know the kind of luck I normally have with haircuts, and that’s no luck at all, basically. But today was to be different.

“No problem,” said the hairdresser, smiling reassuringly as she wrapped me in one of those massive cape things. “We’ll just tidy it up a bit, shall we?” (Sidenote: why do hairdressers always speak to you in the plural? ‘And what are we having done today, then?’ is their usual opening gambit, which I guess is supposed to make you feel like the two of you are on a jolly escapade together, as opposed to what’s actually happening, which is more like a trip to the dentist.)

Anyway, this hairdresser seemed to have no problem understanding just what it was I was after, so I relaxed back into the chair (well, I relaxed as much as it was possible to relax with a sink sticking into my neck, which wasn’t very relaxing at all, come to think of it), and basked in the joy of having finally found a hairdresser who, like, really understood me. Then I decided to get a bit daring. This was my fatal mistake.

“Also,” I said. “This fringe of mine. I’m trying to grow it out, but you couldn’t just, I don’t know, make it blend in a bit more with the rest of my hair, could you?”

Well, that’s what I thought I said, anyway. What the hairdresser obviously heard was, “It’s always been my dream to look like Farrah Fawcett, only with less hair, and a mullet. Make that dream a reality, hairdresser!”

That was how it came to pass that ten minutes later I found myself staring into the mirror aghast as the hairdresser chopped huge chunks of hair off the front of my head, apparently at random.

Now, you’d think I would have said something at this point, wouldn’t you? Well, you would be wrong. Here’s why:

1. It was instantly apparent to me that I was in the hands of a madwoman. A MADWOMAN, I tells ya. And she had scissors.

2. Once those first few chunks of hair have gone from the area around your face, ain’t no goin’ back.  It’s not like she can just stick them back on for you, is it? So if she’s just chopped four or five inches off one side of your head, there really isn’t a possible scenario which doesn’t result in the other side of your head getting the same treatment.

(Aside: actually, there is. When I was at university, there was a girl in my year who had one side of her head cut into a bob, and the other side cropped, so she looked like a different person depending on which side you were standing on. True story. It haunts me to this day.)

3. I am a complete and utter wuss.  And also: stupid.

So, rather than challenge the hairdresser, what I did was, I just sat there grinning inanely, then I drove home, played around with it a bit in front of the mirror, realised that from some angles it looked a lot like a MULLET, then threw myself onto the bed, screaming like a small child.

Then I looked at it again, and realised that, actually, it looks more or less EXACTLY THE SAME as it always has:


Well, sort of. From the front, it looks the same as always, but that’s only because I have cleverly pulled the hair from the back of my head onto my shoulders in this picture. If I pull that hair back, the front is all kind of shaggy. And choppy. And from the side, I’m definitely seeing a mullet. Terry’s comment:

“Well, there’s certainly a…. length difference… between the front and the back.”

This didn’t reassure me. Nor did Terry’s later attempts at reassurance, which included the line, “Does your hair actually GROW? Because, really, it NEVER looks any different to me.”

I think he may be right. I hope so. If not, looks like I’m spending the next few weeks with a MULLET on my head.