Some things slip. Inevitably, for me, it's the haircut. Once I managed to persuade a family friend who is a hairdresser to fit me in on a weekend at a friend's house. It was a top idea. We all had children and so we lined up and one by one, had haircuts, throwing $20 a piece at our hairdresser and watching each other's children while dining on home made pizza. It worked a treat. Unfortunately when I asked about doing it again our hairdresser confessed that she wasn't going to do haircut nights any more because she's not comfortable cutting hair outside work.
Fair enough. Unfortunately that means trying to line up a couple of haircuts in a row so we can all be done at once. Plus we need to juggle that with everything else we do on a weekend. So instead of once every six weeks my haircuts are averaging out at once every six months. The last month in particular has been a shocker. My hair is in total rebellion. Now stretching all the way down my back it has taken on a personality all its own. And unfortunately that personality appears to be a Sex Pistols-mad punk rocker. Split ends mean I can't pull a brush all the way through it and so most days it gets thrown into an untidy sort of dreadlock-ponytail-bun thing. For work I fight to get the front into an elegant sweep and the rest gets shoved into a snood to cover the fact that the last four inches of my hair has morphed into muppet fur. At night when the kids have gone to bed instead of working on sewing, or writing or anything that even vaguely resembles productivity, I've taken to crashing in front of the TV with my sewing scissors and randomly snipping split ends. I knew I had to do something when the ends of my hair frayed beyond a simple split and started sporting five or six separate bits.
This culminated, as most thing that frustrate me do, in a tantrum. Charles instantly offered to front the money if I would only make the appointment. So I rang Supercuts Gungahlin, where our hairdressing friend Hayley works, and by a total fluke managed to book in two appointments with her this Sunday. I was so happy to be there I almost cried. Poor Hayley struggled with my ratty locks and in the end about three inches of it hit the floor. I wasn't sorry. The instant I ran my fingers through it was bliss. No snags. No brittle fluff. Hurrah!
Next up was Charlotte who is totally paranoid that the hairdresser will make her hair short like Daddy's*.
"Don't cut it short!" she shouts at Hayley.
But we're in safe hands. Hayley carefully washes her hair and then ushers her over to a cherry-red little-person seat. Charlotte's in heaven as a Wiggles cape is wrapped around her and Hayley starts trimming her hair into a gorgeous little 'do. Then she offers to blow it dry and Charlotte's in heaven.
"She's getting all primped out today, isn't she?" one of the other lady giggles as Charlotte lifts her chin and examines herself in the mirror. Totally.
As we leave Charlotte slips her hand into mine - something Miss Independent rarely does spontaneously. I tell her she doesn't have to hold hands until we get to the car park.
"I know, Mama," she beams at me, "But sometimes I like to. And we have just had haircuts and our hair is still long and we are so pretty."
Yes indeed.
Shameless plug: Hayley is one of the best hairdressers I've ever been too and luckily she works at Supercuts Gungahlin. This is lucky because Supercuts is incredibly cheap ($26 for me, $15 for Charlotte and this includes complimentary shampoo and condition) and I'm fairly sure a hairdresser like Hayley could earn a bunch of money in a fancier place. The girls she works with look equally as good so if you're after a pretty cool 'do at fairly cheap prices, it's well worth a try.
*Daddy gets his hair cut at Just Cuts because they are cheap. Unfortunately he inevitably looks like Where the Wild Things are meets a Fabergé Easter special when they're through with him.
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