I've written about my struggles with nailing my mummy style before - my hair is a massive stumbling block in this process. After having a baby, new mummies often feel the need for an image overhaul and chop their locks into an easier to manage short "do". Very sensible ladies.
However, in a stupid act of mummy rebellion, I decided to buck the trend by growing out my short hair. Bad idea. Especially as my hair grows outwards into a massive hairball before it grows down (thanks for the big hair genes, daddy dearest!)
Anyway, the worst thing about growing my hair is that I still need to visit the hairdresser almost as frequently. Yes readers, I'm not a natural blond you see (could this be the biggest revelation of this blog to date?) So every couple of months I still find myself spending two hours plus sat in a salon.
And at the end of the two hours of idle chit chat and breathing in the chemical filled air, there's no confident 'just stepped out of the salon' transformation to show off. No miraculously luscious locks to swish around at my will. Just a slightly less unruly mop, with lighter roots and less split ends. Growing your hair is depressing.
Yes, I hear you. But this is rather expensive "me" time and who really switches off when in the company of a hairdresser? Between silently panicking about what is going on beneath the foils (Are they over-baking? Is my hair falling out and my scalp scalding?) and mentally lining up conversation topics to fill any uncomfortable gaps, there is little time for quiet contemplation. Especially when you factor in the following:
The huge mirrors. Having time to yourself is great, but having to spend it perched in front of a giant mirror under far from flattering bright lights is not so appealing. With nothing to do but count the extra frown lines that salon lighting inexplicably seems to reveal, I find myself feeling far from pampered.
The sinks. But at least you get a nice head massage? Yes, but if you're a little on the short side like me, the stress they are relieving by pummelling on your pressure points is promptly replaced with the pain of having your head bent backwards uncomfortably over a sink.
The beverages. When do you time that sip of drink around the chopping activity? Do you wait for a natural break in the scissor action or risk stopping them in their flow and ask for a sip of your tea? Either way, by the time you get to lift your mug to your lips, the tasteless milky liquid they serve is inevitably cold. Yuck.
All the cut hair. It seems to fly everywhere, especially when the poor stylist is attempting to tame a hairball like mine. First it falls into your ears, before tickling around your nose, gradually working its way down into your tea before gathering in your open handbag and sticking to the heels of your shoes.
The receptionist. Is it just me, or are salon receptionists a particularly miserable species? They perpetually fail at the one thing they should excel at - making you feel welcome, valued and looked after. "Have you been here before," mumbled the receptionist at my regular salon this week with a completely expression-free, over botoxed face. "Er yes, only every couple of months for more than two years and you've been sat right there with a sour face on you every time." Of course, this is what I said silently in my head, I would never risk aggravating the scary salon receptionist.
One day, to add to the turmoil of going to the hairdressers, I'm going to have to take Baby J with me. I'm in no rush to subject her to salon stress just yet though. For now I'm planning to dress her mullet up with pretty bows. If only I could get away with doing the same.
I'm a 30-something freelance writer, wife and mum. When I'm not writing about office politics and leadership, I can be found at home in Shropshire with my husband Mr J and my little daughter, Baby J.
Blogs at: Laura Jane Writes
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