Those of you who know me will also probably know that I’m not very good at the beauty regime stuff. Every now and again someone invites me to a home party where upon I convince myself that this time when I purchase the very reasonably priced (if you buy it all together and only right then and there) cleanser, toner and moisturiser I will actually use it. “Yes” I nod in agreement when the beauty consultant asks me if I can spare a minute a day to get beautiful skin. I get my credit card out, and when I get my order I look at the bottles lovingly and put them by the sink. Where they stay relatively untouched until they gather dust and get relegated to the back of the bathroom cabinet. Two years later I throw them away.
And then there’s my hair. Up until Friday morning it was long, thick, ginger and, well, pretty much the same as it was when I was a teenager.
Don’t get me wrong, just like my attempts to have flawless skin I’ve flirted with change in the hair department. I had a terrible short hair cut when I was 19 for a while, and every now and again I had a bob that I couldn’t maintain or a long “sweeping” (irritating) fringe that I was constantly blowing out of my eyes and which always resulted in me clipping it up with whatever pink Hello Kitty clip I could find in the girls room.
Every time I had my hair cut I would feel better and agree that absolutely I would be back in 6 weeks to maintain this beautiful new hair style. Which I failed to do. After a couple of weeks I’d resort to tying my hair back a lot, probably making me resemble an older, and frankly more haggard, version of myself at 16. Occasionally I’d go out somewhere really nice and so I’d straighten it. Mostly I didn’t.
I finally committed to cutting it off and it hit the hairdresser’s floor on Friday morning. The reaction has mostly been positive, apart from Phoebe who looked at me like she’d never seen me before in her life and frankly didn’t trust me either. She told me twice that she wanted me to put it back the way it was.
I’m a little freaked out by it. It’s cold, very confusing when I catch sight of myself in a mirror and has made me feel like I need to wear make up all the time for fear of being mistaken for a boy. But that’s probably because that’s what happened when I insisted I had my hair cut off at 6 years old. At least this time there is no chance I’ll also be wearing my brother’s hand me downs.
Anyway I am reliably informed by my husband that I don’t look like a) a boy or b) Anne Robinson, which is a bonus. So it’s all good. Apart from the fact that I’ll have to commit to going back to the hairdressers more often than twice a year. Oh and the fact that now I need make up lessons.