The Good, the Bad and the Broke.....a trip to the Hairdressers

In the days preceding a rare girls night out, I book a hair appointment that includes all the trimmings (except a blow dry.  Why is it that whatever you ask for is replaced in your hairdresser's mind with either more bouffant than Bon Jovi in the 80s or a poker straight blow dry that essentially looks about as natural as Ambre Solaire fake tan (also from the 80s - and no, I am not Evver from Eastenders, reincarnate).

I text best friend, Juliet, who, as it turns out, is also in the hairdressers (you know you're getting older when a night out is such an unusual occurrence that you book in for the full monty at the hairdressers - and also because age maintenance quite simply demands it).....sigh.

I start by lamenting the quality of reading material there - why is it that every hairdressers has a plethora of mags with the cast of TOWIE and Kelly Brook (to name but a few) in varying states of undress?  Going to the hairdressers is supposed to be a treat, a psychological boost and you spend half your visit comparing the size of your thighs to the tanned pipe cleaners on show at the turn of every page.  Pass me that Good Housekeeping guide....  Having said that all that, when reading anything in the hairdressers you are inevitably going to catch a glimpse of yourself, looking down at your trashy mag in the mirror, and realise that, actually, all reading material should be banned because where the hell did those chins come from????

Juliet is less distracted by that and more concerned with her outbreak of spots that won't quit and her under-eye bags (only a woman could have the skin of a teenager and the eyes of someone in their 40s).....I'm guessing that hair salons shop in the same place as high street clothes outlets for their mirrors for sheer "hag factor".

I mention that this week I am being "done" by Sara, one of the senior stylists and I am bracing myself for a cardiac arrest when I get to the till.  Juliet agrees, adding that on her last visit, when asked who should do her hair she stated "whoever was the cheapest".  The financial rewards may have been gratifying but her blonde was the shade of Ambrosia when she left the salon that day, so shes sucking it up and existing on stale bread and water for the rest of the month.  (I just find it baffling that I can actually never book the junior stylist to do my hair (who, incidentally, is just as good as her superiors) but, wouldn't you know, someone senior is always available.....)

I have to be fair, the finished result is well worth it.  Even my "rough dry" looks pretty damn spectacular, and grey, what grey?  Inevitably she tries to flog me the styling product she has used on my hair (which will morph into lank stringiness in the next twelve hours).  I politely decline.

With my 10% discount for a rough dry, I am presented with a bill of £80.  I send up a silent prayer of gratitude that Sara leaves me with the receptionist to settle up and find the walk of shame out the door is slightly less profound for having handed over my significantly scant tip to her instead.

No one told you that the Timotei Babe had to sell her horse after getting her hairdressers bill.

On my way home I remember my I need to buy something for dinner that evening and head straight for the economy brand.  Its all about getting the balance right, non?