As I type this I look like a cross between a scarecrow and a spaceman. There is steel circular thing (it kinda resembles a UFO) orbiting around my head which looks ready to be popped in an oven and baked at 180 degrees. There's more tin foil on my head than hair. In case you're staring at the screen with a confused look, thinking "Sherinne has finally lost it, better put in an order for a designer straightjacket," let me just clarify: I am at the hairdresser.
Every three months I bite the bullet, pick the least battered looking credit card and book myself into Carlton Hair at Nelson Mandela Square for a little lock maintenance. I have been coming to the same hair salon and chatting about Britney's/Miley's/(and most recently) Charlie's tabloid adventures, with the same hairdresser, since late 2005.
Rudi is my go-to guy, the hairdresser who earned my trust one great blow-dry at a time, as I shed the trauma of a string of really bad haircuts courtesy of student hairdressers in London. Together we've cut my first (very safe and easy to grow out) fringe, dyed my hair its natural (okay, a little unnaturally fab) to hide the grey, cut a more extreme fringe (not so 'safe', not so easy to grow out) and met the increasingly enthusiastic grey tidal wave with a daring (at least for me) decision to go with a half head of more blonde than brunette highlights. Rudi and I, we have history...
So, imagine my horror when I discovered that he's so popular these days that I would have to cheat on him with another stylist. One too many attempts to secure his services had been met with an 'I'm sorry but Rudi is fully booked forever' Okay, I exaggerate a bit, the receptionist didn't actually say 'forever' but you get the point...
If I was to address the increasingly horrific regrowth and ever wear my hair in a middle parting again, I would have to take the plunge and go to a different stylist. It was a risk I had to take... There was no way that I was going to go through another weekend of social engagements looking like a frazzled grey-ing zebra.
My time under the UFO is almost up... And I can almost hear Tracey (the senior stylist tending to my locks) sharpening her scissors in the back room. Next up is the trim, the over GHD'd bits that look like they've been through a mini shredder, are on death row... Wish me luck, like Rod Stewart sang, the first cut is the deepest.
Every three months I bite the bullet, pick the least battered looking credit card and book myself into Carlton Hair at Nelson Mandela Square for a little lock maintenance. I have been coming to the same hair salon and chatting about Britney's/Miley's/(and most recently) Charlie's tabloid adventures, with the same hairdresser, since late 2005.
Rudi is my go-to guy, the hairdresser who earned my trust one great blow-dry at a time, as I shed the trauma of a string of really bad haircuts courtesy of student hairdressers in London. Together we've cut my first (very safe and easy to grow out) fringe, dyed my hair its natural (okay, a little unnaturally fab) to hide the grey, cut a more extreme fringe (not so 'safe', not so easy to grow out) and met the increasingly enthusiastic grey tidal wave with a daring (at least for me) decision to go with a half head of more blonde than brunette highlights. Rudi and I, we have history...
So, imagine my horror when I discovered that he's so popular these days that I would have to cheat on him with another stylist. One too many attempts to secure his services had been met with an 'I'm sorry but Rudi is fully booked forever' Okay, I exaggerate a bit, the receptionist didn't actually say 'forever' but you get the point...
If I was to address the increasingly horrific regrowth and ever wear my hair in a middle parting again, I would have to take the plunge and go to a different stylist. It was a risk I had to take... There was no way that I was going to go through another weekend of social engagements looking like a frazzled grey-ing zebra.
My time under the UFO is almost up... And I can almost hear Tracey (the senior stylist tending to my locks) sharpening her scissors in the back room. Next up is the trim, the over GHD'd bits that look like they've been through a mini shredder, are on death row... Wish me luck, like Rod Stewart sang, the first cut is the deepest.
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