, , , , , , , ,

I’m going for the chop.

Ever since I was a little girl I wanted long hair. I would look at my contemporaries at school with their sleek plaits and bouncing ponytails, and long to have hair like theirs.

There were just two problems. Firstly, that my mother loathes long hair. So I had a bob cut, every time I went to the hairdressers, to be ‘tidy’.  As far as she was concerned, when I could pay for it, I could have it cut the way I wanted. And secondly, that my hair is not naturally sleek and bouncy. So, as I was growing up in a pre-GHD era, my hair looked fuzzy and rumpled and just plain crap, to be honest.

I got round the first issue by dying it many and various colours. Nothing too vicious, but experimenting with wash in tints and the infamous Sun In incident. Actually, I think that was my brother. I seem to recall squeezing a week’s worth of my father’s G&T lemons into my hair and sitting in the sun til my nose turned red and my hair was itchy and stiff – for no particular difference to be made.  Except my father was rather cross.  And then one night, my parents went out.  I was left with the babysitter, a lady of advanced years who was addicted to television gameshows, and a friend. And my parents new, white, bathroom suite.

I dyed my hair red.

The result was quite dramatic. Particularly on the white enamel, and on the white towels.

To this day, I don’t think my mother has forgiven me.  For that, and that we ate ice cream straight out of the tub, and left the spoons in by mistake when we put it back into the freezer.

After that, she insisted I got any colouring done at the salon.

I dealt with the second issue by spending the vast majority of my pocket money on hair serum, and spending hours plastering my hair in avocado, raw eggs, and anything else that JustSeventeen recommended.

By the way, some free advice for you.  If you’re going to cover your hair in whipped raw egg, don’t rinse it out with hot water. It takes hours to comb out scrambled egg.

But then I went to university, and my form of rebellion was to grow my hair long, and dye it blonde. Bet Lynch blonde. I calmed down a bit after an accidental ‘stripping out’ incident which made me look like a badger.  I cut my hair myself, with varying degrees of success.  My hair was long, and unruly, and I worked extra shifts to pay for a Mark Hill straightening set, the first in a new generation of truly magical products.

When I moved to London and got my first proper job I became a bit obsessed by having my hair looking nice.  And the easiest way to achieve this was with short hair.  So I had it all chopped off, for £10, at a little edgy place in Covent Garden during my lunchbreak.  I told the girl to copy Victoria Beckham.

Victoria Beckham glamour

I rocked this look

I like to think that it suited me.  Even though my cheekbones were less than razorsharp, and I wore more clothes than Mrs B.

Given that I was being paid peanuts, and it grew at a rate of knots, I couldn’t afford to have it cut all the time. So my flatmate used to trim it for me with nail scissors as we watched EastEnders with a bottle of wine.

Then I got fed up with having cold ears and having to style it every day, and grew it out.  That was painful. I had a wedge for a while – definitely not cool.  Then the Aniston.

Since then my hair length has gone up and down, just as the season’s hemlines do.

I wanted it long for the wedding so I could have it up and styled – and I have finally managed to convince myself that I will never achieve Kate / Cheryl hair, no matter how long I grow it.

I’ll see how I feel when I wake up on Friday morning. 

The time has come for a change.  To what, I’m not quite sure. Any inspiration gratefully received. I need a new Hair Heroine to emulate.