"I'VE SENT BACK A PLATE OF (STILL RAW) FOOD IN A RESTAURANT. AND I ONLY APOLOGISED TWICE. BUT PIPE UP IN THE HAIRDRESSER? NOT A CHANCE"

P icture the scene.You’re sitting in a plush leather chair with a towel tucked around your neck, a latte and the latest issue of Emirates Woman in your hands.A stylist with excellent hair is tending to your own crowning glory with an air of practised skill.All should be well in your world. But hang on... this colour is most definitely not what you discussed.And why does the distance between your fringe and your eyebrows suddenly seem so vast? You could swear you told her you were growing it out. That’s it; you’re going to have to say something. But what? Nothing, I’m willing to bet. I’ve lived through the above scenario more often than seems fair, and every time, through tiger striped highlights, mulletesque layering, and more terrifyingly OTT blow dries than an episode of Dynasty, I’ve plastered on a smile and declared myself “really pleased”, before handing over a not insignificant sum for the privilege – plus tip. While my inability to question why the Rachel I once asked for more closely resembled a Ross’s Mother can be put down to schoolgirl naiveté, I struggle to understand why, as a fullyfledged adult, I still find myself lying through my teeth in the hair salon on a regular basis. Is it just me – my hair and I have never been the best of friends – or just another ridiculous thing that British people do, like automatically forming a queue in any crowded area, or saying sorry to people who barge into them? Neither, it transpires, as a survey of friends revealed that pretty much every woman I know, be they from Perth, Palestine or the Potteries, has endured a haircut they despised and, rather than complain, thanked their stylist profusely before escaping to their car to study it in the rear view mirror and cry. It’s all the more strange because living in Dubai, where a certain variety of expat will loudly express their dissatisfaction with anything less than the most obsequious of service, has actually made me more inclined towards moaning. I’ll now return clothes I’m not happy with.When a cab driver veers across four lanes of traffic on Sheikh Zayed, I’ll politely ask him to please not do that again. I recently went so far as to send back a plate of (still raw) food in a restaurant.And I only apologised twice when I did it. But pipe up in the hairdresser? Not a chance. So just what is it about the salon that makes us so scared to speak our mind? One friend suggests it’s all a case of shattered optimism. If we walk in clutching a picture of Alexa Chung she says, it’s natural to feel a pang of disappointment when we spin to face the mirror and see not Alexa, but ourselves, with more volume.We stay silent because deep down we know that our distinct lack of Chung-ness is not really the hairdresser’s fault. Maybe she’s right; maybe it’s not the salons that are to blame, but my own unrealistically high expectations. But then she never saw those highlights. n