Showing posts with label hairdressers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hairdressers. Show all posts

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Malaysian style


I loathe having anything done to my hair.

I have thick wiry hair that kind of curls. Not beautiful pre Raphaelite curls or corkscrew ringlets but the sort that just half-heartedly attempts it. It needs tremendous coaxing to encourage it not to frizz and you can imagine the traumas of being in a tropical country where humidity is a constant issue. (Does anyone recall the Friends’ episode set in Barbados with Monica’s hair?)

I’ve always had thick hair but it didn’t begin to curl properly until adolescence. My mother told me that people paid a fortune to have hair like mine. She told me this over and over as though that might help. Looking back I suspect that that some of the traumas I had with my hair might be because as a small child I was tasked with brushing it myself. I brushed the surface and allowed a vast bird’s nest – nay a bird colony – to grow underneath in the nape of my neck. When this was discovered my mother claimed something weird must have happened in the paddling pool that day. Little did she realize that I’d grown it myself through neglect. I screamed the house down while comb teeth and hairbrush bristles flew through the air. My bird’s nest had to be cut out while I was pinned to the table.

So I hate the hairdressers. Quite often the first thing a hairdresser or their junior hair washer says to me is “have you ever thought of having your hair straightened?” Whether or not I like the curls, anyone who thinks curly hair is not nice isn’t the right person to cut my hair.

It’s got even worse in Thailand because of the language barrier. I have found someone to cut my hair but she’s in England and mostly I’m not. This suits me because I don’t have to go too often but when I’m there I have to grab the opportunity so that I get sorted out at least once a year.

But my hair has been troubling me in recent weeks and I won’t be in the UK until March so … I ambushed myself last week in KL. I walked into a salon and asked for an appointment. He didn’t do quite what I wanted but it’s a good cut.

They did the oddest thing: I had my hair washed ‘Malaysian style’ – in the chair with a bottle of water and shampoo. Does this happen anywhere else in the world?


Wednesday, February 04, 2009

Same same but different

I am right at the end of the Mary Wesley biography and I’m loving it; really enjoying it. The closer I get toward the end the more details there are about the books and I know I’ve got to have a Mary Wesley fest. I can’t wait to read them again now I know more about her life and I’m twenty years older (can I really be twenty years older? How has that happened?)

Husband has got some colleagues coming out next week, so if I hurry, I can get them sent to one of them for him to bring out for me. Husband appears to have forgotten the ban on buying books. Husband is a very good man. (What do you think? Perhaps if they aren’t purchased by me in a regular shop and they aren’t addressed to me by Amazon, maybe they don’t really count as purchases?)

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In other news, my lack of post yesterday was because I was traumatised by another haircut. It was bound to happen sooner or later. A friend had recommended a hairdresser and so the other day I set out full of enthusiasm, clutching an address and directions and I couldn’t bloomin’ find the place. This happens to me all the time in Bangkok.

I have a very low ‘mad’ threshold when it comes to my barnet. My hair looks crazy when it’s a good cut and behaving well, but I was looking battier and battier as the dreadful hair cut I had last June grew out. I was attempting to keep a semblance of control with hair slides but it wasn’t working out. In fact, it was such a terrible hair cut, that not even my mother made her usual ‘Oh Jen …’ in tones of terrible disappointment …‘what have you done to your hair?’ comment.

Anyway, I never did find the recommended hairdresser so I walked into one (an internationally branded one) off the streets. What could I expect? She was lovely, spoke English. I showed her my picture and she said ‘similar to this?’ I should’ve known, shouldn’t I?

It’s not quite right but at least is less barmy than before.