MADEMEOISELLE
This month, our beauty columnist says hello to hair-thickening extensions
Our columnist confronts hair extensions
let-down, I’ve been locked in mortal combat with my own hair since an early realisation that some of us were born well-tressed, and some of us were not. Aged 14, my fine hair got on my newly developed bosom so much, I dyed it black and cut my fringe with nail scissors (note: not an ELLE beauty tip to try at home). Then, at 16, I discovered a hair-lightening product called Sun In; going ‘weird orange’ on a family summer holiday remains unforgettable. (I can still hear their screams.)
The stinky yet truly volume-inducing Schwarzkopf hairspray, bought for 20p at the discount chemist where I worked every Saturday throughout my teens, was replaced a decade later by the beauty equivalent of the Second Coming. A religious experience – *falls to knees, worships at the altar of hair greatness* – dry shampoo has been my holy grail hair go-to for years. With several sprays of Batiste (always Batiste), my limp hair ceases to stick to my forehead (beauty tip for my thin-haired sisters: pre-hot sex, spray your entire head with Batiste, because no one should wake up thinking they’ve just bonked Sid Vicious). Thanks to Aveda’s hair-thickening tonic (miraculous), Philip Kingsley’s thickening shampoo and 500 tins of Batiste, I’ve come to terms with the one thing I cannot control: I have shit hair. But I’ll live.
Then, three months ago, Rock God Friend invited me to his 50th birthday party and I had the meltdown of all hair-related meltdowns. Guess who was on the guest list? Madonna. Yup. Fricking Madonna. With the dress sorted (a sexy, floor-length, snake-print thing by Preen), I was set to go. Until I looked in the mirror and saw a borderline middle-aged woman doing an impersonation of a thin-haired Florence Welch. Bollocks. *Quickly googles ‘best hair extensions in London’.*
At boutique hair salon Inanch London, and after an initial therapy session (I mean consultation), the stylist decides that half a head of extensions should ‘make me more Florence’. She uses her own brand of ethically sourced, 100% human hair called Gold Class, which she suggests leaving three inches past my own hair. Ordering two packs of 40cm-long hair, each containing 25 ‘extensions’, she plans to blend two shades of red together for a ‘more natural look’. A week later, I’m back in the salon chair as 50 extensions are applied to the sides and back of my hair.
For several weeks, I am a hormonally charged My Little Pony, swishing though life without a care. Then, three months after the Rock God’s party, when Inanch finally removes my grown-out extensions, I shrivel likea depressed walnut and sob. ‘Ever tried a clip-on?’ asks my best friend on the phone from Los Angeles. ‘A strap-on?’ I hear through my sobs, disgusted at the suggestion of trying out a new sex act in a time like this. ‘A C-L-I-P O-N,’ she repeats, bored of my first-world problems. Now there’s an idea.
At Daniel Hersheson Hair Salon, a ponytail is attached to my head. For demonstration purposes only, it’s bright blonde and clashes horribly with my copper barnet. Nevertheless, I stare at the greatness that is the £65 synthetic mastery that just transformed my rat-tail to ponytail in less than five seconds. With the ponytail removed, the stylist clips a Jane Birkin-esque fringe to the front of my thinning hair. It’s black and I look odd, but I remember the countless, immediately bemoaned haircuts and reckon the no-regrets fringe (£30) is an absolute bargain.
The magic doesn’t end there. Caressing several lengths of human hair that can be clipped ‘in’ – or rather, ‘on’ – I’m tempted to buy a pack of 10 for £146. Why? Held in place with incredibly strong glue strips that won’t wreck your hair, you simply pop back to the salon six weeks later to have them removed and re-glued back in. It sounds so magical, I half expect Paul McKenna to appear via a nearby hairdryer, like a genie from a lamp.
Within a month of being back to my finehaired-self, I find myself in the Inanch London chair again. With each extension, a carpet of luscious red tresses begins to roll down my back. If Dante Gabriel Rossetti were alive, I’d be his flame-haired muse. In black Ray-Bans, I’m practically Cousin It’s cousin, but man, I just love my Grace Coddington hair! Except it’s not mine, but I don’t care. And neither did Madonna.
Inanch London (inanch.com). An application of one pack of Gold Class hair (25 extensions, which is enough to thicken, but not lengthen) costs £300