Because apparently, changing your hair fixes everything!
There’s a strange, unspoken belief—particularly among women—that when life isn’t quite going to plan, the obvious solution is to fix the hair. Not the actual problems, of course. Those can simmer away nicely in the background. But the hair? That needs immediate attention. Because nothing says “I’ve got my life together” quite like sitting in a chair while someone with scissors makes life-altering decisions on your behalf.
You walk into the salon thinking, This is it. “New hair, new me.” You’re half expecting to leave with improved confidence, emotional stability, and possibly a promotion. At the very least, you’d like to leave looking vaguely like the picture you showed them on your phone.
And it always begins the same way.
“Would you like a tea or coffee?”
The Unreachable Drink
Now, obviously, you do say yes, because most of us love part of the pampering session to include a lovely beverage. Five minutes later, it arrives and is placed just out of reach while your arms are firmly imprisoned beneath that cape.
And there you sit for the next three hours, watching it slowly go cold, attempting the occasional subtle elbow stretch in the hope that someone might notice your silent plea. They never do. By the time you finally manage a sip, it’s reached the temperature of mild disappointment.
I’ve learned from this. I now bring my own cold iced latte in a can. Not because I’m difficult—simply because hydration shouldn’t require a rescue mission. Not being able to access a drink that’s sitting in front of you teasing you isn’t something that I blame the hairstylist for; I mean, they are being nice and oh so hospitable, but I find it a repeatable point of amusement. Do hairdressers not know this? I’m very surprised no one has come up with a practical solution for Dragon’s Den. Investors. An extendable attachment from the table with a sippy straw.
The Alpaca Incident – 1998
My first real lesson in hairdresser diplomacy came back in 1998. I went in for what was described as a “do something slightly different but make it good.” Had I known I would come out looking like an alpaca, I would have stayed home with my own hot drink!
The stylist decided to scrunch-dry my hair. Now, anyone with naturally curly hair knows this requires soaking wet strands and a generous amount of mousse. Instead, it was attempted on partially dry hair, resulting in an explosion of frizz so impressive it could probably be seen from space. Not only that, but the guy had cut it to a length I did not volunteer for. My mum had just paid £70 for the privilege—an extortionate amount at the time—and I was then presented with the mirror.
“So, what do you think?” he smiles, totally unaware of the crime he had just committed.
What did I think? I thought I might need to relocate and start a new identity. But in true British fashion, I smiled weakly with my insides crying and said, “Yeah, it’s great, thank you.”
I left the salon, asked my mum to pass me a scrunchie immediately, and tied it up. I think she was just as in denial as the hairdresser, as she acted annoyed at me hiding the sculpture she had paid for. I didn’t release it back into the wild for several weeks.
For years afterwards, I perfected the art of nodding enthusiastically at hairstyles that bore absolutely no resemblance to what I’d asked for, mainly because I didn’t want to upset someone who was still holding scissors near my ears. Self-preservation, really.
The Safe Years
Thankfully, there was a peaceful period when my stepsister, who is a brilliant hairdresser, took charge of my hair. She actually listened, which, as it turns out, is quite a rare and delightful quality. My hair remained safe, healthy, and recognisable. It was a golden era in what can only be described as my follicular journey.
The £200 Disaster
Then, about twenty years after that original frizz catastrophe, I decided—foolishly—to try somewhere new. This particular stylist charged around £200 for a cut and colour. Despite my very clear instructions not to layer my hair in certain areas, she did exactly that. What is wrong with these people!
I left the salon feeling as though the only appropriate accessory would be a paper bag. You know it’s bad when you start planning your route home based on the likelihood of encountering people you know, only to get home and my husband says nothing. Poor bloke was waiting for me to compliment him on cleaning the entire house and ordering a takeaway, and he gets a homecoming from a wife who now needs her hair tidied up.
The £300 Blonde Ambition
Not long after, I visited another salon with the idea of dealing with the orange tone in my hair from a keratin treatment (don’t ask) and getting it blonde again. The stylist confidently quoted a price of £300. Three hundred pounds. For that amount of money, I expected not just good hair but emotional healing and perhaps a small holiday.
Of course, I refused to pay that price, and I was ready to walk out the door—and SHOULD HAVE! So the price had been negotiated to a more reasonable offer.
But the real drama came when he decided the best course of action was to bleach most of my hair in as many foils as possible.
Not a few highlights. Not a gentle transition. He wanted to use all of the foil in Mr Tin Man’s shed!
“No,” I said, with the calm certainty of someone who has seen this film before and knows exactly how it ends.
He looked at me, slightly offended. “Why don’t you let me do my job?”
I decided on the most obvious reason. “Because it’s MY hair, I guess, and I also want to keep it on my head.” So I came out with frazzled ends at the frame of my face, which I had already warned him were fragile and not to touch with bleach.
Thankfully, I had rescued another brutal haircut when I viewed, like in cinematic slow motion, the pull of the crown section of hair—hands gliding upwards, with the scissors aimed at lobbing a good 2–3 inches off. “Noooooooo, don’t cut that off, stop.” He stopped, hence just layering the front round the face. Seriously, I should be an advocate for the victims of hairdressing disasters.
Finding the Right Hairdresser
Eventually, I found a lovely hairdresser who genuinely knew what she was doing. She explained that in order to achieve the rich brown shade I wanted, we’d first need to go through a slight tint red stage. I left the salon feeling slightly startled but reassured, trusting the process and, more importantly, trusting her.
During this appointment, I was offered not one, not two, but three cups of tea—all of which sat just out of reach while I remained trapped beneath the cape. At this point, bringing my own drink felt less like a preference and more like a survival strategy.
The Mirror Ritual
And then, of course, comes the final ritual: the mirror.
“What do you think?”
You’re handed a small mirror and expected to assess the back of your own head—which can often not be seen because the angle always seems off-placed.
“Could you just move it a bit? I can’t quite see the back.” The mirror is manoeuvred side to side until you confidently approve. “Ahh yes, that’s a lovely back of head, thank you.” Often it takes several twists and turns of the mirror. Wait, why am I looking at the back of my head again?
I definitely, in many respects, have gained confidence in speaking out in the hairdressers. It’s either being post-40s or just the long list of disasters that I just cannot go through it again, because then I pay twice.
On one occasion, I even asked to borrow the straighteners to tame a stubborn section of frizz myself. Not because the stylist wasn’t capable, but because I finally trust my own understanding of my hair. It’s amazing how empowering it feels to take control of your own fringe.
A Note on Hairdressers
I should add that I’m fully aware that many hairdressers work incredibly hard and aren’t exactly rolling in it. For the good ones—because they are out there—behind the prices we see are professionals trying to earn a living, often within salon structures where they don’t receive the full amount clients pay. When someone genuinely looks after me, I’m more than happy to support them.
But even with that understanding, there’s still that moment of shock when you hear the price. Then again, it’s not just hair—petrol, groceries, everything has gone up. I won’t go there yet. We all understand why!
More Than Just Hair
There’s something deeply symbolic about changing your hair. Often, it reflects a desire to regain control when other aspects of life feel uncertain, or perhaps even an attempt to change something within ourselves. You go in hoping for transformation and come out feeling, at the very least, a little fresher and more like yourself again—provided it actually looks good.
Because that’s the truth of it. A trip to the hairdresser won’t change your life. It won’t solve your problems or magically turn you into a new person. But if it turns out well, it can make everything feel just a little bit more manageable.
And if it doesn’t… well, there’s always the scrunchie. After all, it’s my hair.
