There are a few relationships in life that make such an impact on a girl she is never quite the same again.
My own relationship began in the late 90's. His name was Mark and when he ran his hands through my hair, I knew my life was about to change.
He stared into my eyes and said "are you ready?".
"Ooh yes please!" I relied, feeling goosebumps break out all over my arms.
I'm speaking, of course, about one of the most sacred relationships in a woman's life. One built on immense trust. One (hopefully) of longevity. One that's not easily replaced. One that is, arguably, essential.
I'm talking about the relationship between a woman and her hairstylist. That person to whom we entrust our crowning glory. That mane of femininity so important to our self-imagine that I have spent vast amounts (I hope The Bloke doesn't read this post!), I repeat VAST amounts of money upon it.
I know of woman who have been with their hairdresser longer than their husbands. When you find "The One" it really is life changing. Mark and I were together for five years. I traveled many miles to get to him and he was worth every minute of my time and every dollar from my bank account. I left his salon feeling like a million dollars. Every. Single. Time.
However Mark eventually left me for the bright lights of Australia. I was devastated, and my hair has never been the same again.
Since Mark, I have been to innumerable salons, stylists, and colourists. Eventually when I had the Misses A and B, I gave up going to the salon altogether. It was just too disappointing. I'd enter, full of hope and determined that this time I'd discover Mark II (excuse the Zephyr pun!). But it was never to be.
Years went by, my hair was randomly cut, and frequently coloured by me in my bathroom courtesy of L'Oreal nice and easy.
In 2016, I decided I had to let go of the dream. Just bite the bullet and get back into the salon. I started going to a local place. My stylist was perfectly fine, but not like Mark. I left happy, but not with that feeling of joie de vie that Mark bought me.
When my last appointment was due, Mum had just died. I couldn't face going into the salon, the same one mum went to. I couldn't sit there and make small talk while my heart was broken. So I cancelled and coloured my hair at home. Just after Christmas I needed another colour. I thought I'd just do it myself, again. But this time was different. Disastrous. Horrifying.
I used a different brand. I can't recall it's name. My hair came out an amazing luminous rich red. Then my hair started to come out...altogether!
I have always suffered from 'hair fall', a polite way of saying that as soon as I get stressed, within a few months, my hair starts to fall out. So at first I wasn't too worried. I thought, well with all the stressful events of 2016, its not surprising. But this time was much worse. Each time I washed it chunks of hair would be on the shower floor. Every time I brushed it more would fall out. The bathroom floor was covered in strands of red hair. I panicked. Would it stop? Would I go bald? Would I have to get a number one and start from scratch? What it if NEVER grew back...Eek!!!!
This was no time for penny-pinching. I made an appointment with a pricey but reputable salon.
"I need your best stylish", I told the girl on the phone. trying not to sound as desperate as I felt. "Someone really, really good".
"Don't worry" she said, "We'll take good care of you".
I didn't really have much hope. But I didn't want to go bald without a fight either. I'd researched on the internet and things didn't look good.
I arrived at the salon early, and met the stylist. Her hair looked amazing. Was that a good sign?
"It's not as bad as you think" she said "we'll do a treatment, and cut it shorter, it'll look much better".
"Okay" I said trying not to cry, thinking about cutting off my long(ish) hair.
"I'll get someone to wash your hair and do the treatment" she said. I was promptly led off to the washing station by a 12-year old with facial piercings. She said not a word, but proceeded to wash my hair with enthusiasm and vigour. Ten minutes later I was back in the stylist's chair, feeling like I had shaken baby syndrome.
An hour later I left the salon. Still no goose bumps, but happy that I appeared to still have a good amount of hair on my head. In fact, although it was shorter by about fifteen centimetres, it did appear to be healthy and thicker than when we started.
I thanked her, thinking this might be the beginning of an important relationship. My eyes strayed to her waistline. I prayed that was abdominal obesity hanging over the waist of her trousers.
"When would you like to come again", she asked, "I'll be leaving in April, to have my baby, but we should have your hair in good shape by then".
NOT abdominal obesity then, I had suspected as much. Another promising relationship turned to dust in my mind.
Trying to not sigh, I booked in my next appointment. I guess we should always make hay while the sun shines.
Grace
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