At the hairdressers (with no knickers on)

I am going back to the hairdressers on Wednesday, to have my hair dyed back dark. The treacle and caramel slices haven’t worked out for me; in artificial light I give off a sickly orange glow, like a glass of Sunny D. Anyway, for the purposes of creating dramatic tension (and of putting off mopping my kitchen floor), I am recreating the scene, way back in February, of my brutal bobbing at the hands of Sasha at Impressions Hair & Beauty. And yes I know, you can see right up my whoopsie again. Must buy some Barbie knickers.

Sasha: ‘Hiya, what can we do for you today?’

Not Waving: ‘Well, my hair looks a bit straggly at the ends. I think it needs a trim.’

Sasha: ‘I’ll blunt-cut it at nape level, bevel the ends and chop in some temple-hugging notches…’

Not Waving: ‘As long as it’s not tooo short.’

Sasha: ‘… then I’ll do a dark base colour and weave in some highlights; I’ll tell you this is essential to ‘break it up a bit’ and ‘give you a lift’. But actually it’s just so we can screw an extra £60 out of you.’

Not Waving: ‘Um, okay then. You know best.’

Sasha gets to work…

Not Waving: ‘Have you worked here long? I haven’t seen you before.’

Sasha: ‘I usually sweep up and pull the hair out of the plugholes. But we’re a bit short-staffed today.’

Not Waving: ‘Oh shit.’

Later…

Sasha: ‘What do you think?’

Not Waving: ‘Um… Er….’

Sasha: ‘It’s totally on-trend.’

Not Waving: ‘It’s a bit shorter than I thought it would be.’

Sasha [impatiently]: ‘It’s directional.’

Not Waving: ‘It’s a bit… bowl-like.’

Sasha [irritated]: ‘Lewis, Kassidy, this lady doesn’t like her hair.’

Lewis: ‘Oooooh, but that’s lush, that is!’

Kassidy: ‘You look much younger. You could pass for 50!’

Not Waving: ‘I’m 41.’

Kassidy: ‘Whatever.’

Lewis: ‘See you next time!’

Sasha: ‘Bye then… you silly old bitch.’

Lewis: ‘Who does she think she is, Heidi f**king Klum?’

Kassidy: ‘I’m never getting old.’

Sasha: ‘Me neither. Let’s stay 16 for ever.’

Oh, brilliant. Now I look like a mushroom

I know some of you won’t have been able to sleep over the weekend, wondering how my new power bob is holding up. Well, inevitably, I was unable to reproduce its angular lines when I washed and blow-dried it myself yesterday, and consequently I now look like a giant chestnut mushroom.

I know I’m not alone in my hair horror, though. Thanks to your dire warnings about ‘the Velma’ (Trish at mumsgoneto.blogspot.com) and ‘the 75-year-old German supply teacher’ (Madame Smoking Gun at sceneofthecrime.blogspot.com), I understand that all bobs have a tendency to go badly awry. Still, I’m not really sure what the alternative is. Do I embrace middle-age and go with ‘the Cagney’, or ‘the Lacey’? Do I vainly try and recapture my youth by getting a spiral perm? Am I self-obsessed, do you think?

Whatever, I’m stuck with my puffball-head for the next six weeks at least. Maybe I could start a trend?

‘Attractive? Confident? Don’t be! Ask your hairdresser for new Bowl-o’-Hair™. With its unique motorcycle-helmet shape, Bowl-o’-Hair™ immediately removes all traces of sexiness, while its patented Oh!-It’s-A-Bit-Shorter-Than-I-Thought-It-Would-Be formula works to emphasise jowls and the first signs of a turkey neck.

Bowl-o’-Hair™. From hottie to hausfrau in minutes.’

Join me, ladies. You know you want to!

I’m looking hot, in a Playmobil kind of way

I have had most of my hair cut off. I now look like this…

… apart from the fact that my bob has added ‘treacle and caramel slices’ (not Mr Kipling ones, unfortunately) which look suspiciously orange in artificial light. If you were feeling kind, you’d describe my new look as ‘austere’. Never mind, I am taking a sort of grim pleasure in looking like a Plantagenet monarch. My new ’do is the follicular equivalent of a bracing walk across a muddy field, or a newly cleaned-out cutlery drawer, or a particularly taxing A-level Sociology paper. Vanity and frivolity, begone!
By the way, in a telling example of gender stereotypical behaviour, my son didn’t even notice I’d had a haircut, while my daughter burst into tears at the sight of me.
Now it’s time for ‘Philistine’s Corner’, my latest rant about contemporary art. I was browsing se1.co.uk for old times’ sake (used to live there), when I came across a listing for a piece of performance art by Laura Wilson, whose exhibition, ‘Horse of a Different Colour’ features ‘Quite a Stranger Aren’t You’, ‘a duet of identical rotating heaters silently moving from one side to the other in unison, almost appearing to be dancing with each other’.

‘• 5 February, 7-8.30pm: Flaming Fuse at Siobhan Davies Studios. This performance piece involves the striking and extinguishing the contents of an entire box of matches in a darkened room. The sizzle of each match is amplified and the performer illuminated before discarding the match and starting again until all the matches have been used.’

Sadly, there are only 20 tickets available, but for all those who are disappointed, I’m hosting my own installation – ‘The Quantum Marmoset Says “Boo!”’ – tomorrow, here in my kitchen. I will be opening a can of tuna and droning, ‘Your tea’s ready, kids,’ in a monotone, over and over and over, in a statement on how cooking utensils illustrate the symbiotic relationship between motherhood and thwarted ambition. Or something.