The Hammer House of Hairdressing Horrors

Yeah, I know, I’m totally running out of clever titles for posts in which I go to the hairdresser and return with a headfull of crazy layers that don’t look any different AT ALL to anyone else but me. Sorry.

And I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: “The hell? Didn’t we just do this not so long ago? Surely it can’t be time for another disastrous haircut entry already? And also: what the hell is wrong with this woman? WILL SHE NEVER LEARN? What was she doing back at the hairdresser when she knows it always ends badly?”

Well, you see, it needed a trim. And I had this idea that if I keep getting the back trimmed, but not the sides (mullet), then the sides will surely catch up with the back quicker than they would if I just let sides AND back grow unrestrained. See, that made sense when I said it in my own fool head, but … gah. You know the luck I have with the hairdresser. I should really just stay at home, and trust me, this time I really think I will. I think I’m just going to let it grow until people start shouting “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” at me. I figure then, and only then will I be rid of these freaking choppy layers that, oh my God, make me want to PULL MY HAIR RIGHT OUT OF MY HEAD. Because GOD, this is getting old.

Anyway, so I went to the salon, and I asked, as usual, for a trim. To be fair, that’s exactly what I would’ve got: I mean, the stylist had sympathised with me about the mullet job, had gently warned me that there was no quick fix for this, and that it was just going to have to take its own sweet time to grow out. He agreed with me that I was doing the best thing by keeping it trimmed, otherwise it would start looking even worse, and he took only the tiniest amount possible off the mullet part, so it wouldn’t look any shorter.

So, it was all going pretty good, huh? I was sitting there silently congratulating myself on at last getting a good haircut, and then, all of a sudden, my mouth snapped open and I heard myself say, “Also, you could just cut in a fringe at the front.” Seriously, it was like a scene out of The Exorcist or something – like some other, malevolent being had taken over my body and started asking for FRINGES. Because hell, it’s not like THAT’S ever worked out before, is it?

I thought I’d got away with it at first. When I got home and looked in the mirror, I thought it was fine. I mean, it wasn’t GREAT: my hair will never be “great” untilĀ  grow out these damn layers, but it certainly didn’t look any worse than it had before, and I’m at the point now where “not looking any worse” counts as a good haircut for me.

Then I went downstairs to make coffee and let the dog out, and caught a glimpse of myself reflected in the glass on the back door.

And I hate it.


It’s a long fringe – in fact, it’s really not so different from how it was before. But it IS different. It is shorter. It’s too long to sit on my forehead, like a regular fringe, but too short to stick behind my ears, like I always wear my hair. And the introduction of yet another different length of hair on my head… well, let’s just say it wasn’t such a great idea, because it has only served to emphasise all the other layers, and this time I have only myself to blame, because the stylist did exactly what Evil Amber told him to do.

Thank God all those Blair-Waldorf-style headbands are in fashion right now, is all I can say. And at least I’ll save money on haircuts for the rest of this year, because as God is my witness, I will not be going back until these stupid layers grow out. Not even for a trim, because clearly it’s too dangerous. If I even mention the idea of getting another haircut here, or on Twitter, please feel free to reach through your computer screen and deliver a good, hard slap, because seriously.

Just to soothe my frazzled nerves, here is a picture of the new shoes I got this week, as a PR freebie. They are shiny. I will wear them when I’m off to see the wizard. To ask him to give me some hair, natch.