Dear Hairdresser

You know perfectly well that you wield more power than you ought to.  You have the power to make any woman you get your hands on look like a complete gobshite.  You should really use your power wisely. 

But no, you have chosen, instead, to tell his harmless eejit, time and time again, that you’re going to give me a haircut that will be perfectly manageable and will fall back into place after the simplest blow drying manoeuvres.  Even though as a professional you must know that isn’t true.

And in doing so you have put me in a position where every single bloody morning I get to stand in front of the mirror, hairdryer in one hand, straightener in the other, on the verge of tears,  and swearing revenge on you.

I’ve gone from salon to salon, hoping to find someone with some compassion and human kindness who will just tell me the bloody truth.  That my hair is a nightmare and there’s no fixing it.  That smoothing creams and anti frizz serums are for people whose hair is just normal frizzy, just to make it shiny and smooth.  That there is nothing that can help me, a woman who seems to have normal hair, covered by an extra layer on top that just stands on end.

I can’t even consider a fringe, because it will just point outward, perpendicular to my head, and still be frizzy. 

I tried cutting it short. On your advice.  Christ almighty, never again.  How in the name of all that’s holy does any woman with thick hair keep it short?  It just sticks out all over the place.  I had to buy a new straightener because the old one is as wide as the palm of my hand (it had to be, just to get the top layer to lie down) and it burnt the ears off me when I tried to use it on two inch long hair.

So then, stuck for further inspiration, you decided we should try an in between length.  And like a complete gom, I agreed again.  Desperation will make you do anything.  Once again I believed you when you said it would be lovely, it would fall into place in the morning.  I told you, I always tell you, that I get up in the small hours of the morning, and that I don’t have time to mess around with my hair for ages.  Do you care?  Do you feck. 

In between lengths, it appears, when your hair is very thick, requires layers.  Layers, for God’s sake.  I can’t believe I fell for it.  Great lumps of hair sticking out all over the place.  I find myself failing to straighten it properly, so it’s either turned in like a pudding bowl cut, or turned out like I think I’m six years old.  It’s depressing on every level.

And yet I keep doing it. I have to.  My hair grows snow white these days, while I’m in for the colour I get it cut too.  I haven’t much choice, if I don’t I’ll just end up looking like It from the Addams Family. Wouldn’t everyone?

And while I’m there I’m tormented.  Either it’s non stop talk, or complete silence until I’m having the colour washed off, and then you start off like a clockwork toy, while my ears are full of water and I’m concentrating on not squirming at the streams of water running down the back of my neck.  Don’t worry that I’m so uncomfortable, with my head at an unnatural angle, just tell me all about the date you went on last Friday.  That’s fine.

I bought the hairdryer you told me I needed, by the way.  No discernible effect.  Thanks for that.  And I’ve tried the recommended deep conditioning hair mask.  Same caper. 

Please stop lying to me, and making me promises that will never come true. Or I’ll start mixing domestic bleach into that enormous bottle of conditioner you keep on the sink.  I’d like to see you explaining that to the other customers.

Yours in frizzy good faith