Just an inch off the bottom.… Please?

I have a confession to make: I am terrified of going to the hairdressers.

Now for those of you who are thinking “well that’s not really a big deal,” I’m not just talking about feeling a little bit nervous before having my hair cut. I am talking about a deep-seated, chronic fear of having my hair cut off. We all know the old ‘hairdressing little white lie’: “I’ll only give you a trim,” well for me, this invokes past memories that leave me cowering, catatonic with fear, in the salon chair.

However I am sure that it’s not just me that is used to dealing with the upsetting consequences of such a false assurance.  When it’s finally over and you’re left covered in the remains of what was once your long, lovely locks – your security blanket – and in typical British fashion you’ve praised the stylist’s ‘great job’ and thanked them, despite the fact they’ve sadly reaffirmed once again why you hate this arduous process, you rush out of the salon and round the corner before they’re able to see those resentful tears fall.

I’ve never had a haircut I’ve been particularly happy with (and that’s not just me being fussy I promise!). I’m very low maintenance when it comes to hair, I don’t require anything remotely fancy but no one appears to be able to achieve this. It’s like it goes against everything they learnt during hairdressing training, but I assure you it’s ok to be a little bit normal sometimes! “Why don’t you simply tell them what you want?” I hear you ask…. Unfortunately I’ve learnt the hard way that there is no point. Hairdressers seem to agree with me and I think, “Great, I’ve finally found someone who is actually on the same page,” only to be bitterly disappointed when they’ve raised the scissors to begin the 5^th stage of the ‘cutting process’ and I’m left needing oxygen because I look like a cross between Ringo Starr circa 1964 and a mushroom.

For this reason I rarely have my haircut. We’re probably talking about once a year if that, and even then I only endure the horrific process because the sheer volume of my hair has become big enough to take over a small country and I cannot listen any longer to my mum’s complaints about it looking untidy….. This I do not understand – it always looks fine to me.

Which leaves us with today. I had my haircut. (Actually for the second time this year – I have my graduation this week and wasn’t sure if the mortarboard would actually fit on top of my head unless I lost a little bit of the excess heft.) Am I happy with it? Um, it’s probably too soon to answer that; I think I’m still in the early stages of grief. The comment “I’ll just removes the unhealthy bits” was all very well until those ‘unhealthy bits’ turned out to be the majority of my hair. I was left uncertain whether my legs were still steady enough to carry me to the till to pay the extortionate price for the privilege.

Between the terror and uncertainty of anticipating just how bad on a scale of 1 to 10 this particular ‘trim’ will turn out, and the awkward, stilted conversation that hairdressers force upon you, (no I am not going on holiday because I won’t actually be able to afford food once I’ve paid for this nightmare) I can’t see the appeal of having your hair cut. I long for the day when someone will change my mind about it but seeing as I will be avoiding anywhere that people may handle scissors until my hair grows back this is extremely unlikely.