The Reveal

As I expected, my trip to the hair salon today has not resulted in any Cinderella-style transformation. When the stylist held up the mirror, so that I could see the back, I was lost for words – well, I had already used up all the appropriate ones for this exact same hairstyle on my previous visits.

My subconscious has blotted out the details of payment, on the basis that it could threaten my sanity, but when I stood by the reception desk trying to look pleased with my helmet of rigidly-coiffed hair, I could have sworn that the young girl who brought my coat referred to me as ‘Your Majesty.’ But maybe I’m just paranoid.

At least having my roots done has meant that my hair finally looks clean, which is a good thing, but it also looks extremely sensible which, for some reason, doesn’t feel quite so good.

My daughter told me that she thought my hair looked nice, so I smiled chirpily, and pronounced myself ‘delighted’ with it. Surprised? Ah, but I know that mothers are not supposed to keep making negative comments about their appearance in front of their daughters. Usually I am fed up to the back teeth of advice for parents, and the implicit blame that goes with it, but this one seems to make a lot of sense to me. In addition, I have been keeping a wary eye on her recently – a sort of ‘Daughter’s self-image watch’ (a bit like Springwatch but without the horror of Bill Oddie or owl fratricide).

A friend who also has a nine year old daughter told me last week that her beautiful girl has started to say that she thinks she is ugly. Whether this is because of teasing by schoolmates or from comparisons with models or pop stars, my friend has no idea. Both she and her husband have constantly tried to reassure their daughter, but to no avail.

I seem to remember going through similar feelings myself, but not at that young an age, I’m sure. I remember my parents used to go out of their way to tell me I was beautiful, but as always, I dismissed their viewpoint outright since I thought they were madder than monkeys. It wasn’t their opinion that mattered to me, but the opinion of whichever monosyllabic spotty youth I happened to have a crush on at the time.

I am thinking about all this as I am cradling a large glass of Bonterra Zinfandel from California (Ocado £9.99). It is rich, spicy and peppery and very relaxing. I had an e-mail from Jane in San Francisco who recommended the Dashe Cellars Zinfandel, but so far, I have been unable to get a bottle. Jane really made me laugh with the confession that sometimes she telephones a friend in a more Eastern time zone, so that she can bring forward the time of her evening glass of wine by an hour, and make it seem a little more respectable. Ingenious! I think if I had access to all those fantastic Californian reds, I would be doing exactly the same thing.

When I tucked my daughter into bed a few minutes ago, I told her how beautiful, how lovely, how gorgeous and how pretty she is.

‘Yes Mum’ she intoned in a flat, bored voice, which sounded vaguely familiar. I can see already that my biased opinion is fairly worthless in her eyes. Maybe I would be better saving my reassurances for when she starts visiting the hair salon.

Hair Of the Dog

I am getting my hair cut and highlighted tomorrow. It actually needed doing about six weeks ago, but trying to book consecutive appointments with a stylist and a colourist is harder than gaining an audience with the Dalai Lama. With the combination of extensive dark re-growth and long straggly split ends, my head is starting to resemble a jellyfish.

In the past when I went to the hairdressers, I used to look for inspiration by flicking through the salon’s magazines. I gave that up when I realised that pointing hopefully at a photo of some glossy-maned model always sent the salon junior into a fit of giggles. I also remember one particularly sulky stylist mumbling something about being a hairdresser, not a magician. Time after time, my bright-eyed optimism has been dampened by the assertion that I don’t have ‘that sort of hair’ by which, I suppose, they mean the sort that actually looks good after a trip to the hairdressers. So now, I just sit there swathed in sweaty nylon, while the stylist cuts my hair in exactly the same style I had before, regardless of what I asked for. Still, on the bright side, I have ample opportunity to sit in front of a large mirror, staring at my haggard reflection, and marvelling at my increasing resemblance to my mother.

I often wonder why no-one is allowed to escape the salon’s clutches without having their hair blow-dried. I would quite happily just give mine a brisk rub with a towel on the way out, since I always hate the way they blow dry it, and can’t wait to re-do it myself. Whenever the stylist enquires above the noise of the hairdryer as to whether I am going out that night, I always have to resist the temptation to shout ‘No, I have already missed this year’s Bobby Charlton convention.’

The final insult in this whole sorry exercise is the extortionate cost. Every time I pay a hairdresser’s bill, I swear that next time I’m going to cut it myself. But, like wearing pop socks with a skirt, it seems that cutting your own hair is one of those unmistakeable signs of descending into muttering insanity.

I am taking some consolation in a glass of chilled Araldica Madonnina Gavi (currently £5.99 down from £6.99 at Ocado). This wine is a regular tenant of the Drunk Mummy cellar, and its crisp, clean lemon taste is just what I need. I am starting to think about radical action tomorrow on the hairstyling front – a Mohican perhaps, or maybe dreadlocks? I could always opt for a rebellious streak of bright blue, like an East European au pair. Sadly, I expect that I will simply be sitting here tomorrow with a shorter, blonder version of what I have now, and a considerably lighter bank balance.

Holiday Haircuts

I took the boys to get their hair cut today. I say cut, but it looks more like a marine jarhead shave. The place we go to is an old fashioned barber’s shop, complete with stripy pole outside and Brylcreem smell inside. The boys have loved going there since they were tiny. It could be the 1970s Technicolour photos of chisel-cheeked heroes on the walls (no ornately coiffed boy bands here) that they like. It could be the good-natured, efficient chaps who wield their shiny scissors with such dexterity. It definitely has something to do with the lollipop they get at the end. But most of all, I think it is just that the whole place is steeped in an atmosphere of benevolent ‘blokeishness’ that you really don’t find anywhere else.
The boys always have their hair cut as short as possible. It cuts down time spent on hair washing and drying, stops them from catching the head lice that their schoolmates are always generously donating to others, and lends them an air of menace. They climb into the barber’s chair with hair that is already shorter than the boy who has just vacated it, and after five minutes with the electric shaver (1 at the back, 2 at the sides, 3 on the top), they emerge looking like rather intimidating newly-shorn sheep.
The reaction of other parents to this extreme haircut is usually mixed. Dads frequently run their hands across the boys’ suede heads and smile nostalgically. Some Mums however, obviously find the whole ‘ASBO chic’ thing a bit too much to bear, and laugh nervously as they manoeuvre their ringletted children away to a safe distance.
We are having fish and asparagus tonight, so I have already uncorked some Gavi La Madonnina Araldica (£6.99 Ocado) which I have mentioned before, as it is a firm favourite of mine. Hopefully there will be some left by the time we sit down to eat.
I realise that, as with all parental decisions, I am probably storing up trouble for myself in the future by having the boys’ hair so short. I can see that the moment they are able to choose their own hair length, they will opt for the full Johnny Depp, and I won’t have any say in it at all. But then, since I won’t have to wash it, dry it, or pull nits out of it, I doubt I will care that much either.