Homespun and happy(ish)

21Nov13

In Dublin last weekend, which means, as those who know me well will guess, a haircut. People find it amusing that I get my hair cut in Dublin. Laugh away, naysayers – when you find a hairdresser you like, hold onto them like grim death. Am I wrong? Well, tell that to the judge, AFTER you have checked any CCTV footage that recorded my transit anywhere, any time, from 2pm on Saturday to about 21.25 last night. Can’t spot me? Look for the woman who looks like Maggie Philbin circa 1978. The one scampering through the shadows, a pantomime picture of misery.

How could it have gone so wrong? Well, assuming that I bear responsibility of not one jot of it leaves the field clear for Meg Ryan, the European Parliament and the hapless scissor-wielder (though Meg Ryan and the EU still bear the lion’s share of blame). Meg Ryan’s in the frame because I downloaded some pics of her hairstyle but alas, she has had many, and I couldn’t find any good ones. So I printed off three, the worst one on top. The European Parliament comes in because of its cockamamie insistence on the need for workers to have time off. Thus it was that, armed with a sheaf of shonky pictures, I entered the hairdresser, only to find that John ‘Miracolo maestro’ was on holiday. Bugger it. Which left his deputy to re-create almost perfectly the shitwig that Meg was sporting in the crap printout I proffered.

As I walked up the street afterwards I spotted my shadow in the brief watery gleam of sunlight. My hair had been scrunch-dried. Yes, scrunch-dried. The rasping sound of a golf-ball of mousse landing on damp hair sparked some flashbacks, let it be said, so I was primed to realise, horrified (and this is one for our older readers) that I looked like Jane from Neighbours after she had her makeover, and was no longer ‘a dag’. That might sound self-serving (ooh, POST-makeover, get you) but this is a mid-80s Australian daytime soap. She looked better before.

The mood has been slowly sinking under the weight of poor decision-making, and last night I’d had enough. And, I reasoned, I’m not throwing away good money on what might turn out to be another crap haircut, not when I can screw it up for free. Its appearance wasn’t improved by being shoved, sodden after swimming, into a woolly hat for the walk home, and so the bathroom sink, hand mirror and sewing shears had a terrible inevitability about them. Tongue right out as far as it would go, for balance, with hands borne up on wings of despair, I lopped off nearly two inches. And this despite receiving a text in capitals from a friend – ON NO ACCOUNT CUT YOUR OWN HAIR. Thing is, he shaves his head with clippers; his hypocrisy does not go unnoticed.

The result: a damn sight better than it was before. It’s not quite even on both sides, so now I look as if I have my head permanently cocked on one side, as if interested in the conversation. Or a spaniel who knows you have biscuits. And that’s adorable, no?

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