Here Hair Here

Today is haircut day. It is time. That video of how not to make coffee made me realise it was actually time some time ago.

It always helps to have a picture of what you want for your hairdresser. I learned this the hard way.

I was 24 when Friends came on TV, and I had very, very long hair in perfect condition. I liked the Jennifer Aniston do. I went to a hairdresser and asked her to cut my hair to around jaw-length, kept long at the front, with a few layers cut in. I should have taken a picture like this, but I took none.

This is what I got:

Everyone I met that afternoon said "Oh. You've had your hair cut," in a tone of voice in which one might say "We opted for a fixed-rate mortgage."

I hated my haircut, really hated it with a passion. I have a big wide jaw and a cowlick hairline and heavy fringes look bloody awful on me. I'd finally been brave enough for a haircut and got this: it was terrible. I flippantly began saying I was going to go home and shave it all off. A few hours later, I did. I was in my bedroom with a big mirror propped on the floor, the same mirror that is over our mantelpiece today. I had Ian's clippers, and Ian, who wasn't sure if I meant it or not.

I cut the first stroke, so I couldn't lay the blame on Ian's shoulders if I came to regret SHAVING OFF ALL MY LONG HAIR that I'd lovingly tended for three years, trimmed every six weeks, never blow-dried or curled or coloured - "What am I doing! Ian! What am I doing! I'm shaving all my hair off Ian!" Ian hovered behind me, making nervous sounds in his throat. I passed him the clippers: he did the bits I couldn't see. I left the hated fringe intact in the front: without the rest of the hair, it looked much better. I ended up looking like Tintin.

I remember the date exactly: 24 October, 1995. Late October in North Yorkshire is not the ideal time to remove one's hair, as it tends to get chilly, but it felt tremendous. People said "Oh my God!" in the tone of voice in which one might say "A thousand pounds? For me?" It was great! No more shall I wear it up? Shall I wear it down? Put a clip in this bit? Wear it to the left or right? Life was suddenly so simple. However, for several days I retained a habit of dipping my head to my right and then flicking it back to my left, as if heading a football, which I'd subconsciously done for years to get my long hair off my face and never been aware of until then, when it made me look like a lunatic.

I have had long hair for most of my life. This is mainly because I fear hairdressers more than I fear the dentist. I love going to the dentist! I relax in the chair. I breathe deeply through root-canal work. I forced myself to relax at the dentist, because it used to petrify me, and I didn't enjoy being that tense with fear. So it's twisted and strange, but now when I sit back in that chair under the funny light and the smell of rinsing fluid, this delightful sense of peace washes through my being. My old dentist in York said, "You're my best patient." The nurse nodded in eager agreement and said "Yes, we have to physically fight some people!" I pictured strenuous wrestling matches involving dental picks and machines that went Ping!

Where did I leave the original point of this post? A long way over there somewhere. Let's get back to it.

As it helps to have a picture of one's desired haircut, I browsed the Internet to find one for today. What I found were many haircuts from the Planet Zog that have no place in the real world. I understand that these are extreme showcases of what a hairdresser can do with enough superglue and LSD, but surely these models have lives to live, pints of milk to pop to the shops for.

"Yes, I've brought him in because he's been coughing a lot."

"Twenty Marlboro and a copy of the Sun. Thanks."

"Yeah, er, what platform is the next train to Waterloo? It's not on the board."

"Does this bus go to Streatham?"

"This contemporary dance represents my need for a loaf of bread and some bin bags."

"I need to post this parcel, but I can't see."

"I just topped up my card but the machine's not letting me through. Why are you looking at me like that? GOD."

I was toying with the idea of having my hair cut short today, shorty-short short; but after long and thoughtful minutes in the bathroom, scrutinising my middle-aged reflection sideways-on, mirror in one hand, scrunched-up hair in the other, I've decided not to do anything rash. Just a trim and a tidy-up. I'd only regret it otherwise.

"Hi! I'm new to this playgroup. Who'd like to hang out with me? Anyone? Hello?"