It’s true I hacked at it myself a while back, but only because the last experience was so undignified and awful and inspired such a level of ‘cross’ that I convinced myself that with curly locks no one would ever know. As from today, I have a new ‘do’. And I didn’t fess up to the truth about me and the kids’ craft scissors when the hairdresser looked puzzlingly at the varying lengths of my hair, politely asking where I last had it cut. Because I have also had an end-of-winter-pick-me-up on the colour front, I was at the salon for hours, looking wild and eccentric in public – hair done up in it’s foil squares, (very Buck Rogers in the 21st Century), knitting maniacally.
While the time out ON MY OWN and the knitting bit was soothing in itself, it’s the hair wash that was the best bit. Even though I am 38 and still need to sit on a phone book in order for my head to uncomfortably reach the sink thing. Even though the removal of the foil bits from my hair is always extremely painful and has me doing labouring mother visualisations and breathing exercises, the ninety second massage is worth the preceding hell. Not enough ‘o’s in that kind of sooooothe.
Seventy seconds in, I opened my eyes to check I hadn’t left this earth, decided the cracked, discoloured ceiling in this funky, all-designer-look salon was decidedly unheavenly and closed them again. The last twenty seconds was spent pondering the general lack of attention to salon ceilings (Michelangelo-inspired art anyone?) and feeling sympathy for the owner of the establishment who was either patently in DIY denial or had never stopped to have a head massage.

Despite the pre-haircut similarities, this is neither me, my new ‘do’ or even Chewbacca from Star Wars. This is another member of the family who has a date for a fur-do next weekend. Esme prefers the soothing tummy rub option over the head massage.
Thanks to Aussie Waffler for choosing this week’s ‘Eye Spy’ and Cindy for the hostess-ing with the mostest-ing...