Loss of liberty? Global economic armageddon? Mere trivialities compared to my grey roots...
As salons set to reopen, TV star can’t wait to get the chop
‘Matted mess of tugs and lumps of congealing dye’
AMID the stresses and strains surrounding lockdown and a life-threatening pandemic, you would imagine that the biggest barney in our house over the past few months would have been about something with a bit more gravitas than my hair. But we’ve all learned more about ourselves over the period and I’ve discovered that where my hair is concerned, I am Love Island-grade vain. A loss of liberty? The breakdown of the education system? Economic armageddon? Mere trivialities compared with the trauma of my glow-inthe-dark grey roots.
In the days before lockdown I had acquired a set of hair clippers and did quite a decent job on my husband’s very conservative short back and sides.
But the big mistake was to do it in the kitchen and while wearing clothes. As a result, subsequent meals were garnished with hair shavings and I developed a range of itches in some unspeakable places. On the next occasion, I cut his hair in the garden and no doubt the neighbours are still talking about it.
Flushed with coiffuring success, my next client was my very nonconservative 20-something son who had dyed his hair platinum because he was bored and wanted a style that was a bit more advanced.
I offered to etch the Turin Shroud on the back of his skull but, disappointingly, he just wanted the bottom half shaved with a floppy bit on the top. I have to confess that this was less successful than his stepfather’s cut but as far as I know he’s still not seen the back, so all is well.
And what of my own hair? Prelockdown, while others were stockpiling silly things like food and drinking water, I bought a supply of boxed colours from the chemist that promised to give me rich colour and a Claudia Winklemanstyle shine. If I can’t have a sliver of her BBC contract, at least I can have her healthy hair.
On running my plan past my hairdresser, she told me to fill my boots but to be prepared for purple roots and a big bill at the end of lockdown to repair the damage.
So, after some underworld negotiations and a covert journey that would have made Dominic Cummings blush, I acquired a supply of my usual colour mix and some instructions.
My biggest mistake was forewarning my husband (who has been working from home) to be prepared to help me do the back of my barnet. Now, I know there are many chaps out there who take great care over their appearance and there is nothing wrong with that.
My husband’s idea of selfpampering is being allowed to watch the cricket in peace.
However, when I returned with my colourant contraband he had taken it upon himself to watch a five-minute YouTube tuition video and was in the bathroom waving a towel and asking if I had been anywhere nice on my holidays. Ah, if only it was that simple.
Those of you who regularly undergo colour work by professionals know that it requires not just an expert eye but a firm hand on the brush. Crucially, time is also of the essence. Forty minutes later my beloved had only finished one side and my entire hair was a matted mess of tugs and lumps of congealing dye. What started in good humour had descended into full-on argy bargy.
The floor tiles were splodged with dark grey and the air was blue.
I said he was inept, he said I was controlling, and at one stage he threatened to abandon the job and go for a drive.
I won’t bore you with the details but we eventually got it done and are still married. Would I risk getting him to cut it, as some of my friends have trusted their spouses to do?
Have you lost your mind? No, for the past few months I’ve enjoyed my time as a Kronenbourg, the lager which boasts it was first brewed in 1664. My long flowing locks meant I looked 16 from behind… you can guess the rest.
However, two days ago, investigative journalist that I am, I was invited by my usual stylist, at Alan Edwards in Glasgow, to test out their new-look, pandemic-proof salon. I can report to all of you out there champing at the bit to revisit your favourite salon that the new regulations mean that not only can you have a safe cut and blow dry, but so pristine are the work surfaces you could happily have your appendix removed at the same time.
I’ll confess the masks and visors aren’t great fun for either client or hairdresser and I missed my coffee and posh magazine, but on the bright side it won’t be for ever.
And in terms of the longevity of my marriage, it’s to dye for.