Well, my hair is back. No, I haven’t been suffering alopecia, I have just been sporting uninspired hair for a few years. There are a number of reasons which I shall not bore you with..What?…You want me to bore you. Ok then.
Firstly, I lost my hairdresser due to her being on the other side of the river and everyone who knows me, understands I get a nose bleed past Victoria Parade. Secondly, I thought I would have a final shot at growing my hair. The problem was it started to grow out in a triangle shape and just made me look kinda sad. Droopy, perhaps? So I have avoided salons till I could no longer stand my hair. I was about to go all Mark Latham on my head when I managed to wrangle a last minute appointment with the man I have named Captain Fabulous.
From the minute I walked into his world, he loved me up in ways that only certain hairdressers understand. He gave me great head (massage that is). Let me read my trash magazines in peace. Took my unrealistic idea of a haircut and made it something that worked for me. Told me I didn’t look my 39 years (bless) and lampooned women from Sydney who want to look like Lara Bingle. No bullshit small talk, e.g “Any plans for the weekend?” No dicking around and he wore a lovely aftershave. Really, the best time I have had with a hair stylist in a loooong time.
God, I forgot how good hair feels. In my past life, the one where I wore black and shuffled papers, I always rocked good hair. My writerly life has forced colour and bad hair into my life. Today I grasped back a part of my past life I can not quite give up. I am getting used to colour but I will never get used to bad hair.