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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Oh dear God, the fringe

I find hair cuts very traumatic, and it seems that each time I go, I find a new way of making difficulties for myself.

When I called to book an appointment, I found my first problem, because I can never remember who previously cut my hair. I’ve been going to this hairdressers for over a year now, and in that time I have only had one bad haircut before, which was done by the only bloke that works there. However, I don’t remember his name either. So when I called, I was all pumped up to say “I’ll have anyone but the bloke”. Naturally, the bloke answered the phone, so I had to go for the second step – opt for any hairdresser with an obviously female name.

He gave me the choice of three names. The first was a Sam or a Jo or a Charlie – it could be man or woman. The second was a Spanish sounding name which, to my ear, could also be a man or woman. I therefore leapt at the third name, which was clearly and obviously female, and felt that, in this war, I had at least won the first battle.

The girl cutting my hair seemed to have based her entire style on looking half like Lily Allen and half like the drummer from the White Stripes. I found this interesting and off putting at the same time, but decided that, since in this hairdressers of all hairdressers I have only had one previous bad hair cut out of 6 other good haircuts, she could be trusted. How wrong I was.

I should have know better when, while cutting my hair on the right hand side, she held up one small piece toward the front and asked “can I leave this bit long and cut it short behind it?”

I didn’t understand the question. I had no idea what she was on about. I had, just that moment, been busily thinking about how, if I had a huge budget and owned the flat we live in, I would totally redecorate and refurnish the whole place, and I was just kitting out the sitting room in my head, almost entirely in things from Ikea (because I have no experience at all with this kind of thing, and Ikea is the only furniture store I’ve ever been to). So I nodded, and said – and I know, people, I know that this is where I went entirely wrong – I said “do whatever you like”.

Don’t ever say that to an ambitious young Spanish hairdresser in North London. Just don’t.

I have now got one of those weird London-Nathan-Barley haircuts where one side is longer than the other. On the right hand side I have one lock of hair hanging down like a parody of a Hasidic Jewish by, behind which everything else is cut the size and shape of those pixie haircuts everyone had in the 1990s. On the left hand side it’s all a touch longer, with hair that, while still all choppy and layered, stretches down to my chin.

And the fringe? The fringe? I hear you asking about the fringe. Let me tell you of the fringe.

The fringe starts about half way down my forehead on the right hand side and then SLOWLY GETS SHORTER UP TOWARDS THE LEFT. The fringe, dear readers, is on a slope.

Before you ask, no, there will be no photos. He Who Only… very kindly says that I look like an “alien princess”. There is nothing more to be said.

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