I’d been needing to go for two weeks. I’d tried salvaging it with a little mousse, gel and wax, but without much success. At the kitchen table the kids suggested: short isn’t necessarily the answer, mama. True, but neither is long.
So, off I went to the hairdresser.
She’s young, meticulous and doesn’t sport a trendy new hairstyle and colour every time I see her. She’s also polite. She knows exactly how to handle my oddly positioned crown and precisely where I’m going silver, or almost silver grey. And she instantly senses whether I’m in the mood for a chat or not.
Yesterday, and not before time, I plonked myself back down in her chair. She immediately went to work with her scissors and every now and then, checked to ensure it was symmetrical. She cut a bit more and gave a careful blast of the hairdryer. Then I asked how she would style my hair if she didn’t know me, if she were seeing my messy mop of grey for the very first time and could do whatever she pleased.
Startled, she nearly dropped her scissors and, almost in astonishment, exclaimed:
“Then I’d do exactly the same as I always do. Because I listen carefully to what you want, look at you and then cut your hair in a way that suits you. Just like I did today. I couldn’t do it any other way.”