More Hair, Yeah, Yeah!

So over at Paper Dolls for Boys, my friend Tracey has suffered mercilessly at the hands of a hair dresser. I'm hair, ohhh, here to tell her - she's not alone. Not one bit.

For instance, last week I succumbed and thought it was time that my little dude should have a bit of a tidy up. This is no easy decision for me. Last time I cried. Seriously. I had cultivated this shaggy surfer dude, and the hair dresser transformed him into a conservative looking kid that could look comfortable in chinos and a checked shirt. Don't forget the boat shoes. Not my cup of tea. I am more a fan of dishevelled nonchalance. Click here and you can see that hair cut that tormented me (and by the way, was done under the supervision of my husband.)

This hair cut was a danger zone - the hair dresser wasn't listening to me, but I spoke up a little louder and clarified that during this hair cut, there would be no use of clippers. This was a clipper free zone. After a while I mentioned that the back just needed a little trim. I had visions of leaving with a mini-mullet (or a chullet - children's mullet) in tow. That wouldn't have been good. She back-handed my request and made me out to be a complete fool - 'I'm coming to it, I just can't do it now because I have to do this first'. A simple yes would have been suffice. Thankfully any Billy Ray dreams were gone with the snip of her scissors (as an aside, have I ever mentioned how my music teacher at high school made us line dance to Billy Ray in Year 7 - torturous). Phew.

Hair dressers wield more than snipping power when they give a hair cut. They have the power to make the next few weeks of your life a living hell.

Let's take for example one of my first horror hair cuts. I was 16 and visiting my sisters during school holidays, coming to the Big Smoke. Sydney.

My sisters both worked during the day, so I was pretty well left to my own devices. One day I decided I needed a new hair cut. My sister - this one - sent me off to this great 'funky' hair dresser.

Forty five minutes later I stepped out looking like the lost love child of Ringo, Paul, George and John.

This hair cuts horror was only exacerbated when I returned to my very conservative country public school, and my art teacher - who was a bit of a hippie, cracked up laughing every time he saw me. And my sister? She still laught hysterically when I bring it up. Let me just reiiterate, 16 year old girls are already going through a hard enough time, without having hair that replicates the Beatles - who, by the way, are MEN!

Hopefully that hairdresser is still having nightmares about the heinous hair injury he inflicted on me. We all know I am.

A more recent hair cut was done in my home by a reputable hair dresser who also worked at a salubrious salon.

Once he had finished cutting my hair, he took me to the mirror, and I'm pretty sure my expression summed up what I thought - but I went one step further and tapped that nail into his coffin by saying 'Mmm, it might look ok when I wash it.' Seriously, I looked like Princess Di. And no offence is meant to Princess Di, but her haircut did not look regal on me. I didn't want that signature bouffant. Hmm.

If you do want Princess Diana hair, click here and check out that magical wig. Or perhaps you're more into a Martha Stewart 'do? Or maybe Monica Lewinsky delights you? Or even Lil Kim? Do yourself a favour and pop over here. Do it now, otherwise you may regret it.

BTW - check out this bizarre article.