People who know me know that I don’t like hairdressers.  Actually, I do like hairdressers, I just don’t like them coming near me with their scissors and small talk.  The entire process of getting my hair cut by a professional in a salon, or studio – or whatever the hell they decide to call their particular version of medieval torture chamber, raises my anxiety levels more than just about anything I can imagine. Should I ever find myself in a perilous situation, all I have to do is place my fear against the standard curve of zero to haircut and everything seems much better.

Stage one – making the appointment

If you don’t have somebody to do this for you (in my case, my Mum, close friend or ex-girlfriend), you have to:

1. Identify a place that cuts hair;
2. Make contact with them by actually – horror of horrors – phoning them up and speaking to somebody;
3. Stammer that you have no preference for which stylist you have, after all, would you prefer getting killed by Mister Babadook or that nun thing from The Conjuring 2;
4. Recalculate your options when they tell you that the one specific time when you had mentally prepared for the event isn’t available and can you do half an hour later;
5. Scramble around for a pen and paper to write down the appointment date… and time… and stylist, asking three times that they confirm because your brain has fused and you’re about to shit yourself.

Stage two – the wait

That period between hanging up the phone and entering the salon door is torture.  Obviously, I’ve never been sentenced to death for committing a heinous crime, but the hearing words “Great, we’ll see you [insert day and time of appointment here]” are pretty much the same as “You will be taken from this place and hanged by the neck until you are dead”.  Every waking thought is consumed with dread as the clock ticks down to appointment day.  Not only that, I usually spend a lot of time reliving the phonecall I made the make the appointment and how I sounded like a complete dick and how I will overcompensate and try to seem normal when I actually meet the hairdresser face to face.

There will also be periods when I go into denial, deciding that my hair is actually OK and that it doesn’t need cutting anyway. Give it a bit more time and I’ll be able to tie it back.  Then I’ll look even older than I already do, get to the stage where I don’t wash it for days on end and start smelling as bad as the dog after he’s rolled in fox poo.  No, it needs cutting, man the fuck up!

Stage three – the appointment

The day of reckoning arrives and it’s just like any normal day, other than, well, the obvious.  Then it’s time to leave the house – ok then, just one more wee before I go – and make my way to face my terror.

For some reason, I assume that the people in the hairdressers will be expecting me, but as I take a deep breath and enter, nobody greets me and I stand there, hopeful that somebody notices.  Give it two more seconds and leave… one…t… The receptionist appears from the back room and apologises, “Sorry, I was just making some coffees. Is it Tina?  Would you like a coffee? [Insert name of stylist here] is just finishing off and will be with you in two ticks, have a seat.”

Trapped.

The hairdresser finally approaches and introduces herself as Sandi.  She is happy and immaculately turned out. Walking me over to a chair in front of a bank of mirrors, she looks at me in my reflection and asks, “So what are we doing today?”

“I just want it cutting please.”

Then the interrogation starts, with a few standard comments thrown in:

• What style do you want?
  • It really doesn’t have a style, it’s just a curly mass.  Please can you just cut it so it’s more manageable and I don’t get into a terrible mood when it’s windy?
• Who cut it last time?
  • Don’t worry, it wasn’t you or anybody here.  More than likely it was my sister or me.
• Do you want me to just put some layers in it to take some of the weight out? There’s certainly a lot of it.  It’s a lovely colour!
  • Whatever that means, yes, just do it.  Take enough off so I don’t have to experience this for a long time.
• Ok, we’ll do that, let’s get it washed.  [Insert Saturday trainee’s name here] will take look after you and I’ll see you in a couple of minutes.  Do you want a coffee?
  • My bladder is screaming at me and I only like my coffee the way I do it, but I don’t want to seem impolite so yes please.

So, after having my hair washed (“Is the temperature OK for you? Would you like conditioner?”), I am escorted back to the chair, where I sit and have to look at myself in the mirror for up to an hour.  The snipping begins, as does the conversation.

“So, are you doing anything special tonight?”

“No, just cooking and watching some TV.  I’ll probably have a few drinks.”

That should kill the conversation off, but no.  It continues.

“Oh, when I’m done here, me and the girls are going out to the ‘gay village’. We just love it there, it’s so safe and we can have a good time without getting hassled.”

Yep, and whenever I go out there, I can’t get to the bar or the loos because of people like you getting in the way.  Hence I’m staying in and watching TV.

We cover holidays, Christmas, what I do for work. And then, in a frenzy of hot air and jzuzzing up, I’m “done”.  I look like Elaine Paige, but I tell her I LOVE IT! just so I can get out of there and back home to wash and style it myself.

Apparently, some hairdressing salons now give you a checklist when you enter and you’re asked to select things like conversation or no conversation and coffee/tea/water/no drink.  I can imagine the awkward silence after selecting no conversation.

Anyway, it’s been three years since I last had my hair cut by a professional and I just get my sister to hack away at my head every few months these days.  Having a bad-tempered sibling brandishing sharp objects near my soft tissues is far more preferable to going to a hairdresser.  I’m sure many people recoil at the thought, but until hairdressers offer general anaesthetics, I’m staying well away.