In the past the thought of a haircut would fill me with dread. I used to fear the hairdresser the way some people fear dentists. Put it down to bad childhood experiences I guess - the mere sound of snipping scissors would have me breaking out in a cold sweat.
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| Before |
My mop of hair just grows and grows until it has no style and cannot even be straightened properly... until I am forced to face the sound of snipping again.
So yesterday I went for a haircut, at last. {You can read my whole haircut story over at Undercover Bloggers.}
My stylist was "Irina" (I'm guessing her name); a tall gorgeous Russian. She doesn't say much but she knows what she's doing.
"Chhhvat you vaaant?" she asked me in that cool-as accent. I was just going to get a trim, my usual boring safe option. But looking admiringly at her sleek hairdo I suddenly blurted, "Um could I have what you've got? Do you think that would suit me...?"
"Schhhure!" she said, and started cutting.
Finally Irina finished and declared me several years younger than when I'd walked in.
I walked out with my hair shining and bouncing. I felt like a stylie young mama instead of straggly middle-aged one.
I haven't had it this short since I was twenty-two, but I like it. What do you think? Not bad aye?? 