January 24, 2014, by Eve
Hair (specifically head hair) plays such a vital role in how we construct our personality, individuality and identity. Whether you wear it long, short, curly, straight, fluffy, messy it has such a distinctive effect on your appearance and how people remember you – ‘the one with ginger hair’ – ‘he’s the guy with spiky blue hair’.
The history of hair would make for a fascinating read. For Old Queen Bess, high foreheads were in mode and, so my history teacher told us, she actually shaved her head accordingly. In the English Civil War men wore their hair long – monks, on the other hand (or, should I say, the other head), prefer it short, haloing their skull in a tuffy ring.
The reason for these hairy contemplations is that I have recently taken a trip to the hairdressers. A trip which was well overdue.
Owing to the drastic implications a bad haircut can have, this was a visit which required a lot of preparation.
I always feel awkward and wrong-footed when I go to the hair dressers. My hair feels under a lot of pressure to perform well. Everyone’s watching it.
This is a foolish worry, I tell myself, it doesn’t matter if my hair looks bad now. That’s the point of getting a haircut! Turning the bug into the butterfly!
The scariest part of going to the hairdressers? The question: So what do you want done?
Err… a haircut?
The best defence is preparation. And so, for a couple of days before, I experimented with lengths – I didn’t have any wigs so I ended up hiding the longness of my hair in my top.
I came up with a rather useful measuring scale. I didn’t want to go into the hairdressers and say ‘I’d like 14 cm off, please’. No, no. I came up with a much less embarrassing technique: the boob scale.
Top-boob, middle-boob, lower-boob, under-boob. It sounds like a dance move!
It seemed to work reasonably well.
But, when I actually got to the hairdressers and was sat in the chair, my cunning measurement plan was ruined. One of those cloak things was whirled round me before I had a chance to get my measurements right in my head. I was a pale, ball of a head sitting atop a mountain of black, boob-less proportions.
‘So what do you want done?’
Um-ing and aw-ing I nodded and agreed with whatever, with no sense of how it would look when my body remerged.
Snip. Snap. Brrr.
Done in ten minutes. I felt a bit like a dog being ruffled and forcefully dried.
Not as dramatic as Ann Hathaway or Jessie J’s cuts (thank goodness) but change is change and you never know what it’s going to be like on the other side.
It looked shorter. Well, that’s generally what happens when you go to the hairdressers. But it looked ok. At home I went through the New Hair test:
1) Check flexibility: Get a hairband and Hair up. Hair down. Hair side. Hair both sides. (another dance!)
2) Check thickness: How many ponytails can you break it up into?
3) Check mobility: Wave it like you’re worth it
Pretty satisfactory. I texted the news out.
Me: Hair is cut! x
Response: Ooo how long on the boob scale? xX
What did I tell you? It’s a universal form of measurement!
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