DIY DYE — AND A DECADE — BE GONE!
I sKIPPED down the road to the salon, wanting to burst in there, propelled by the joy of this homecoming. Except that’s not allowed any more. Like an astronaut boarding a space mission, the salon customer must observe certain procedures.
temperature taken before entry — that was a sticky few seconds. Imagine being turned away now! Face covering checked. A short wait for the door to be opened by approved personnel. Astronauts probably think that’s worth it to go to the moon. It’s definitely worth it to go to the hairdresser.
At the beginning of lockdown I developed a new philosophy of the everyday aesthetic: sod it. If I didn’t look at my toenails, they ceased to exist. Hair, though — that’s hard to ignore. It’s too in your face. Literally. Worse — grey hairs have appeared, criss-crossing my scalp.
sally at George Northwood’s salon in London has kept the secrets of my true hair colour for years and knows where all the pigment is buried. she’s not just a colourist but a confidante. We laugh, we share. I sobbed in her arms when my last dog died.
Yet deep in the guidelines, we’re told to keep talking to a minimum. Well, sal was in a visor, me a mask. And it turns out that not only has she got a new puppy, but also engaged! No talking? Don’t be ridiculous. she’s got her work cut out today though. too much sun and a cheap home dye kit have left me all the hues of a mouldering banana. such a relief to see her retake command.
And now for the chop. I’ve never been a fan of the drastic cut — it’s looked the same for 50 years. No escaping it this time, though.
George Northwood has never cut my hair before. He is off, in a flurry of scissoring. A quick clever blow dry and suddenly: ta-da! It’s somehow just as it used to be, but with a groovy, modern twist.
Restored, unburdened, I bounce out of there: two pounds (of hair) lighter, ten years younger. One small step for me, one giant leap forward into something like normal.