I’m not exactly embracing adulthood.
I don’t have the patience for it, is the problem. I love working; that’s one thing I can get down with - and having money to spend as an excellent upshot of that. As long as I’m not spending that money on bills, rent, or the tube, that is.
Other things I cannot get down with: dusting, ironing, waiting for the washing machine to finish doing its thing, the pressure to be a foodie and wear matching socks. And, finally, having a ‘hairstyle’.
For as long as I can remember I’ve had long hair which I’ve styled meticulously each day, by which I mean washed, (sometimes) brushed and left to make those slightly embarrassing wet patches, one over each boob, whilst it dries naturally. Sometimes I put it in a bobble.
I have dabbled in having a ‘hairstyle’ in the past, with varying results. Once a hairdresser made me look like a skunk with a mullet (but not before getting so distracted by her mate and letting most of the hair on the nape of my neck break off under the bleach), another gave me two-inch layers graduating from the crown of my head to my shoulders. I had highlights. I had low lights. One adventurous trip saw me ask for colour ‘slices’; a word which I thought sounded cool but in truth only resonated with me when prefixed with ‘ham’ or ‘cheese’.
Then, for a short period, I became a walking cliché. Four years ago I broke up with an ex-boyfriend, bleached my naturally dark brown hair and moved from Newcastle to London. I wanted my ex-free new life in the city, with my new job, new friends and, eventually, new boyfriend, to be reflected in my appearance. Whilst I’d been down-hearted up north, my southern self was the happiest I’d ever been. The lighter my hair was, the lighter the weight on my shoulders. I bleached my way out of depression.
It was all very profound. And then I ran out of money for expensive hair salons and was spending most of the year apologising for my roots which mostly looked like poorly-executed accidental ombre. I totalled up that, from age 23-27, I had my haircut five times and I had about two months of ‘good hair’, and three years, ten months of looking like a half-arsed teenager.
Two weeks ago I decided to grow up.
I booked an appointment at Paul Edmonds’ beautiful salon in Knightsbridge and braced myself. Not changing my hair for so long meant that I was clingy to the length and, oddly, the peculiar colour too, which was naturally dark at the root and pure brass on the ends. For the sake of my working life and the sanity of my poor mum who was forced to suggest, with a kind heart, that I should 'just get those split ends chopped off…’ every time we meet, I wanted to be more sleek.
I had it chopped.
Siobhan Baynes, a senior stylist, snipped almost six inches off the length. It sat on the floor and I missed it instantly, but I knew I’d done the right thing and, more importantly, picked the right salon to do it. Even wet and unstyled, it looked fancy. Then Clare Lodge, head of colour, expertly painted away my embarrassing half-bleached hair and didn’t take the mick once, which was nice. The ambience in the salon was perfect - no startling lights, a delicious lunch whilst I waited for the colour to take hold and interior styling that tipped the balance of upmarket and still inviting perfectly. I trusted the salon, which almost felt like a living room in some ways, and the stylists who spoke to each other like family. For once, I was right to.
The result was not only that my hair felt light, and shinier than it’s ever been, not only that it looked grown-up and ‘done’, and that it was decidedly fancy after being blow-dried, but that as soon as I stepped out of the salon, people treated me differently - and I felt different. I got a bit more confident. Swishy, if you will.
At work I felt more conviction in my ideas - now I didn’t look like a 6ft teen I didn’t need to act like one - and being out I felt more poised. The dirty blonde locks I chopped made way for a no-bull-brunette.
I’m still not ironing, dusting, or paying bills on time as regularly as I should be, and I doubt I’ll be embracing ‘liquorice ketchup’ or whatever other potentially pretentious prerequisites being a foodie requires. But, for now, grown up hair is working. I’ve even started brushing it. Occasionally.