I have pretty hideous hair.
Naturally curly and humidity hating with baby hair regrowth that sticks out like wings and threatens to stay forever even though my youngest is nearly two. And whilst you will never catch me complaining about the hot weather, it’s making my bad hair days even worse. Monica has nothing on me. Nothing.
I spend the best part of three days a year straightening it. Three whole days. And that’s only to make it marginally less kinky… frizzy… quiffy. It’s a complete waste of my time. I mean, I could be tweeting or blogging instead.
So I am thinking about getting it cut. Short. OK, let me quantify that. Not a crop. It’s currently two thirds down my back. Beaver thinks I’m Rapunzel. I need to take it slow. But a nice bob, perhaps even a shortish one.
Now, Marion Cotillard. She has a fabulous bob. Yes, that could work. Looks pretty low maintenance too I think. No, that’s not a red carpet she’s standing on and she hasn’t been preened for hours. That’s a wake up and go job, that one. Perfect.
And then, just as the excitement is really starting to take hold. Just as I’m picturing how my life is going to change a la Marion Cotillard, I realise. I don’t look anything like her. It’s a depressing thought.
I can just envision the scene now. As I walk into Charles Worthington (this isn’t where I go by the way but it’s where I imagine one would go if they wanted to look like Marion Cotillard) with my sad little picture printed from the internet.
‘I’d like to look like this.’
‘Mmmm,’ says senior hair stylist designer person or whatever they are called these days. ‘Don’t we all.’
As he sifts through my split ends, he will know how to talk me out of it. And he’ll utter the three words I hate most in the world. ‘You’ll have to come every 6-8 weeks to maintain the style. Ugh. Cheap shot. But it will work. I currently go every 6-8 months. Reluctantly. In between that my favourite stylist is called Batiste.
You see, I have a deep mistrust of hairdressers. Ever since I went to the hairdressers and asked to look like Makepeace. You know, the blonde detective from Dempsey and Makepeace, that classic 1980s crime drama. What, you’ve never seen it? No, turns out neither had my hairdresser.
I came out looking like this.
And that’s when my disastrous hairstyles started. Aged eight. With bobs, funnily enough. Until that moment I had lovely thick, straight hair. But whatever the hairdresser did to it that day, changed it forever. Wham bam, hello curls. Hello wings. Hello hair hell.
And yet here I am again, convincing myself that a bob is the way to go. That I can carry it off. Except this time it’s Marion not Makepeace.
Perhaps I’d better just settle for looking like Rapunzel.
And a frizzy Rapunzel at that.
WHAT’S YOUR HAIR HELL?
Surviving Motherhood tip#6 – how to choose the right hairstyle for you
- If you must take inspiration from a celebrity, check your hairdresser knows WHO you are talking about first
- Be prepared to style, groom and generally be happy twiddling
- Because however good you look in the salon, it’s probably not as effortless as it first appears
- Do not model yourself on a 1980s detective. This look suits nobody.