One of the things I am really struggling with while working is finding the time (and money) for self maintenance. The weeks creep up on you so quickly that one day you’re a hairless beauty swanning round in a skirt and open-toed kitten heels, and the next you’re wearing a hideous pair of last winter’s boots to hide your unpainted toenails, and donning a pair of 200 denier tights to trap the hairs desperately trying to escape through the holes.
This week, my current hairstyle (if you could call it that) had become so offensive that I was forced to settle for that one slot in every hairdresser’s diary which is reserved for serious cases only: the Saturday 9am. I had to take it, I had no choice. It was for the good of all the unfortunate souls in my day-to-day community who had endured my appalling hair long enough. However, it was most definitely not for the good of my unsuspecting hairdresser, whose face dropped at the sight of me dragging a hungover shadow of my former self into the salon, sinking into a chair, and propping Marie Claire between my eye line and the unforgiving mirror in front of me.
But when she approached I made the fatal mistake of removing my shield. And the sight was far worse than I could have imagined. Clusters of pink blemishes appearing on my chin (made worse by poorly applied foundation), bags as deep and grey as a slate quarry, and eyes the size of button holes due to my inability to face liquid eyeliner at 8am with a hangover. My only comfort was that the cold morning had brought with it a layer of fog which meant that I would remain unseen by anyone standing over five meters away. If only the fog could have decided to hang a bit lower, perhaps just below chin level.
Luckily, my hairdresser was sympathetic, and one of the few who do not feel it imperative to jabber on at their victims for 40minutes solid. We chatted for a while about X Factor and volumising mousse, among other intellectual topics, and about 20 minutes later I felt I was coming to terms with my hideousness suitably well. Until she started blow-drying and another flaw was staring me in the face. Not only were my roots over 2cm long, they were in fact tri-colour. Between the solid line of my natural 'mousy' colour and the Scandanavian Blonde which I apply monthly, was a section of tell-tale faded blonde, which gave away just how long I had left my roots the last time. The only way I can describe to you my traitorous three-colour hair is to liken it to a carpet swatch. You know, the ones which get darker in gradients and, despite the fact that they fall in the same colour range, each section is quite obviously different to its neighbour.
But the ordeal was nearly over, so I gritted my teeth, plastered on a contented smile and focused my attention back to Britney’s re-invention. I tried desperately to remain sympathetic to her downfall, but I couldn’t help thinking: craziness aside, perhaps shaving her head wasn’t the worst idea. At least she’d never have roots.
Alight here for the Piccadilly line, other District Line services, or if
you’re about to vomit
-
Hands down, one of the worst experiences ever is being hungover on the
tube. No, let me re-phrase that – being hungover on the tube in rush hour.
The first...
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