Sob.
As feared, the haircut is less 'Olsen twins' and more 'Rod Stewart after a run-in with some bleach'. And, in a monumental triple whammy of disappointment, the seriously, seriously gigantic and over-confident teenager who washed my hair a) didn't turn on the massage chair and b) didn't give me even a paltry attempt at a head massage, merely cursorily smearing some conditioner over about a third of my head and washing it off within approximately eight seconds, aeons before any of the product would have had the slightest chance to soak in, and then roughly towel drying it using a similar action to one you might employ when trying to absorb spilled water from a carpet with a tea towel, so that c) when she took me back upstairs and tried to wrench a brush through my Medusa-esque do, I felt like I was being scalped. Liv. Id. Most of all, I am livid at my total failure to complain. I heard the humming of the chairs and the contented sighs of the satisfied customers to my left, yet I did nothing. It was pathetic.
But on the upside, the hairdresser was waaaaay more handsome than I remembered, and he's not Polish, he's Hungarian, not that that means anything, but just in the interests of accuracy, and he's actually rather charming and I briefly fell madly in love with him. And in a worthy addition to the psychotic fast forward thing that us girls do so well, without even meaning or wanting to, I suddenly imagined us getting together and before I knew it, I was wondering whether this would be the last time I would have to go to a salon to get my hair cut, because my new fictional boyfriend, Alex, would be cutting it on a Sunday morning in front of Shipwrecked. It's really quite extraordinary how it happens. Ah well. Back to the grind.
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