One (more) good reason to keep your big mouth SHUT.

Scene: Hair Salon, Bethnal Green Road

INT. Mid-morning. Girl with matted hair and sleep in eyes is sitting slack-jawed in the chair. Everyhairdresser stands behind speaking to mirror.

EVERYHAIRDRESSER: [brightly] So, what are we doing today then?

GIRL: [Silent, staring glassy-eyed at own resemblance to a hungover bloodhound.] …

EH: What kind of cut are you after?

G: [Mouth still gaping, saliva welling inside bottom lip.] Uh. Well. Shorter. A trim. Cut the… ends. And something, the, the fringe… [gesturing vaguely towards head]

EH: ….Uh huh.

G: [Suddenly pleased with self] What do YOU think I should do?

EH: [Bored now.] Let’s go for something a bit different, eh?

G: [Nods dumbly. Obediently pads over to sink for sweet relief from difficult questions and – O wonder! The head massage!]

The first constant in my infrequent trips to the hairdresser is that I never have an answer for that (very, VERY important, it turns out) question because:
1) I cannot stand hearing myself blathering ‘I’m thinking sort of feathery but not flippy, edgier – but not tragic… you know?’
2) It’s a Saturday. I’m hungover. Like I said.
3) Isn’t it their JOB to know the answer to that question? Would they be alright with the idea of going to a mechanic, say, and being asked ‘which bits do YOU reckon I should fix?’

The second thing that happens without fail at the hairdressers is that I do not banter. The pleasure to be gained from an uninterrupted hour of vacuous magazine reading vastly outweighs any joy I might get from an hour of where are you from/ going anywhere nice on holiday/ so do you own your house or rent?

I went to the hairdresser last weekend. I broke one of my rules. I couldn’t help it, he was so sweet and softly spoken, and he had the MOST beautiful tattoos of birds up his forearms. I couldn’t help it.

But I’ve learned the wisdom in abiding by the rules: when you are having an interesting conversation with your hairdresser, NEITHER OF YOU IS LOOKING AT YOUR HAIR.

Hence, I walked out with the worst haircut I’ve ever had – worse even than the lesbian rugby enthusiast cut I had at 18 – so bad that someone today told me I looked 1970s in a Martina Navratilova way.

Jay-sus.

In summary: shut the fuck up at the hairdressers. Heed my wisdom, for it is hard won.