Hair Dilemma

Sophie-G impersonating yours truly

It’s that time of year again, no not autumn, not pre-Christmas shopping, the great hair dilemma.  Summer has come and gone leaving me with a sun burnt frazzle of a barnet, green tinged and smelling of chlorine.  I have been dyeing my hair since I realised I could go from mouse brown to canary yellow with a Boots pack at the age of 14.  I blame it on Ski! yoghurt and the advert they ran in the 70s with that impossibly blonde family frolicking in the snow under sunny skies.  For those of us not frolicking in the energy crisis dark days of 1970s Britain, more akin to living in the grey mists and toil of a damp Hovis advert, this sunny blondeness was highly desired. 

As all you women readers know, and men readers should know, a girl’s self-esteem is intrinsically linked to how she feels about her hair. AND this is precisely why there are so many expensive con-(wo)men hairdressers preying on women such as myself who believe that entry through their doors will lead to the Kingdom of fabulous hair.  My desire for great hair is that of an eight year old wishing for a Wii.

I have a lot of it (Irish side) but it is what the French call “fin” and obviously delicate or it could be amazingly robust considering how much peroxide has been poured on it over the past gazillion years (I’m getting coy about my age now that I’m heading upwards fast).  And most of my friends and hubby know that I can’t blow dry my hair myself (I was tempted to write that sentence differently but my mother reads this blog).  I am so bad at blow drying, getting all hot and bothered and frustrated with the effects that I very often go au naturel hoping to convince with a “what the hell” attitude. 

And I’ve tried everything, every Aveda, natural, Japanese straightening, ‘ello Vera conditioning treatment from Paul, Richard and Jean-Louis but still I keep searching.  Today I entered a new salon here in Switzerland and was treated in such a condescending manner and my hair was looked at with such disdain that naturally I made an appointment (effects of bullying) and left feeling all of 2cms high.  And then I had a coffee by the lake in the sunshine and laughed.  I am a gazillion years old and really ought to know better than be taken in once again.

So tomorrow I will go back to my faithful hairdresser Christine.  Christine doesn’t have any fancy tricks or false promises, a condescending attitude or any fancy products that cost a fortune. Christine is cheap and consistent and a master with the blower.  Top hair tips from Christine include don’t wash hair too often and rinse your hair in vinegar to make it shiny.  I go into her little salon with the plastic flowers and rubbish magazines looking like a member of ZZ Top and leave looking Jennifer Aniston-ish or at least the best my hair can, every time.  If ever I stray and I am a fickle customer, she just tuts and most often than not laughs.  She laughs especially loudly when I tell her how much my infidelity has cost me.