My experience of hairdressers in the
UK (rather than anything to do with the standards of American hairdressers) has made it difficult for me to find a hairdresser in . Aside from always worrying that my hairdresser might be the first to spot if I had head lice (I never have but it is an obsession- I wonder if they would tell you if you did?) I had an experience with a hairdresser which, perhaps unfairly, left me a little mistrustful! America
My first real hairdresser was one of the best in
at the time. He owned a horse where I went riding (or rather where I hung around hoping to scrounge a ride of someone else's horse!). The fact that Stuart the hairdresser experimented on our hair, dying my best friend’s hair electric blue and mine ‘titian’ (or rather belisha beacon) didn’t deter me. After years of home perms I recognised the quality! He was grumpy and mean but so funny. I don’t think he intended to be – he was very camp and at 14 it amused me. He called us a pair of ‘Dinge queens’ which has stuck as a mutual nickname to this day. No idea what a dinge queen is but I am fairly certain it isn’t complementary! He set the standard for my future expectations: He was gay (I like that – I feel safe with a gay man cutting my hair – which is after all a very personal and possibly sensual experience), he was a friend (he still lived at home and his mother once cooked me lamb chops – I was a vegetarian!) and he was good! I lost touch with him when my friend, destined to become Miss Birmingham refused to have her hair died red white and blue for a hair dressing competition. Very patriotic but not the look for a beauty queen! (if it had been in America she would have been guarenteed to win with such a show of patriotism!) England
After that I always opted for men to cut my hair. My husband and brother-in-law have confessed to liking large breasted ladies cutting their hair because their breasts end up at head height. I should make it clear from the start that I did not opt for men to cut my hair so I could have their genitals rubbing on my shoulder – but it does happen! It is one of the downsides.
After the university years of being back to home perms and dying my own hair fuchsia pink I sought a new hairdresser and found one that reminded me of Stuart. He was short, funny and camp! The only indication of him not being gay was his 6’2” Amazonian wife – with cropped bleached blond hair like something Americans stereotype as being from the Russian Olympic team (or the Russian in Rocky 4!).
I didn’t worry about my new hairdresser phoning me at home. I should have. He would flirt outrageously when I went to the salon. I didn't worry about that either. He did it so openly that I thought he must be like that with everyone. Maybe I should have been flattered when he exposed himself to me. I told him to put it away and went home and cried. It makes a great dinner party story now. (You can imagine the sort of dinner parties I have!) Looking back it was quite comical. This little man trying his luck. I’d gone upstairs to look at the flat he had just purchased above the shop. Naive I know. When I turned from the window, there it was, erect... in all its glory! I have very large hands. Something, I have been told, is also the fate of some of the world’s most beautiful women. No one, however, looks at their hands! Someone once said my hands would make any willy I touched look small. There was no way I was touching the one presented to me that afternoon above the hairdressers shop even if for once my hands were perfectly proportioned. It was huge. I am surprised he didn’t faint with such a blood rush from his little head. He did put it away as asked, noted that he had indeed 'gone too far' and picked up a guitar lying near by and began strumming that instead (I kid you not). I even paid for my hair cut before I left! I didn’t have my hair cut after that for a very long time!
My next hairdresser was married and his wife and two daughters worked in the salon. I was safe!
It was with caution that I approached a hairdresser here. In fact I asked Hubby to book an appointment at the local salon for our anniversary after I had been here 6 weeks. It is a plush modern affair that boasts its European credentials (I’m not sure what they are – other than charging
prices). My first trip was a disaster. I got there to be told that Hubby had in fact booked at their ‘sister’ salon… it’s only 10 minutes away, they said… It could have been on the moon – It may as well have been. All my resolve vanished and I went home deflated and defeated- all confidence gone. It was another 6 weeks before I finally had to do something. Through recommendation I booked Matt. I prayed he would be gay. He reminds me a lot of Stuart my first hairdresser– same nose – which isn’t a complimentary thing to say. He is funny and entertaining but there are some worrying signs: Paris
1. he isn’t Gay – or at least he was married – albeit only for a few months
2. He told me another client had asked for a ‘just been f**cked’ hair do. Now that is a bit overt – especially for Americans who don’t swear much. Thinking about this – my hair looks like that most of the time – I wouldn’t pay good money for it
3. He asked me what I wanted him to do with my BANGS!!!! Now I was alarmed and told him I never wanted him to touch my bangs – ever.
I left the salon with a fairly decent haircut but my fringe was far too long. In fact he didn’t cut it at all!!! How was I supposed to know ‘Bangs’ are fringes???!!!I shouldn’t tar everyone with the same hair brush! I should visit the hairdressers more often – I certainly need to get my barnet sorted and my BANGS are desperate. I will hopefully squeeze in an appointment before I go back to