I haven't been to a hairdresser for a long time now - a really long time. I stopped going when I realised I could do a better job myself with cheap clippers. But cutting your own hair requires a bathroom, and a bathroom is one thing that we ain't got this week. Haven't had one for nearly a month now. I'm sure when the new one is finished it's going to be fantastic, but in the mean time my hair has been, guess what - growing.
Pretty inconvenient, if you ask me.
Yesterday I passed a hairdresser's. With a kind of fascination for the world I'd left behind, and on glimpsing my haggard reflection in the shop window, I went in.
Now, with my hair you can't really go wrong. I don't want anything fancy - just clip it really short and I'll be happy. And now that the deed is done, I have no complaint. It's fine. But I have one regret: it's fine. Nothing more.
I've realised that when I do it myself, yes, sure, I miss bits and the back is crooked, but I put my heart and soul into it. I'll work on it to create something that really satisfies.
I think that's what I was secretly hoping for when I went into the hairdresser's, and I think, secretly, that's why I stopped going in the first place.