If there’s one adulthood chore I avoid more than separating my dirty washing by colour, it’s getting my hair cut.
Then there always comes a point when my barnet needs some TLC…
Until now, I’ve avoided trendy hair places out of fear I’ll leave looking like some sort of millennial experiment.
But I’ve become so bored of my “just a trim, please” hairdo, I thought I’d try my luck in a beer-serving, 80s hip-hop-playing, bricks-for-decoration hipster hairdressers and ask for “just a trim, please” there instead.
As any victim – sorry – customer knows, “just a trim, please” translates to “I like my hair exactly how it is, just a bit shinier” but in a hippy hair salon, anything could happen.
Half way through the chop, things were going well, until …
Hipster: “I’m going to do something to your hair now and, well, don’t be scared”
Hipster: “Basically, I’m going to back-cut it”
Hipster: “Don’t worry, it’s all internal”
Me: “sorry, what?”
At this point, I’d usually cry (and still pay a whopping tip) but luckily I lost all my fucks when I turned 25 and was more intrigued by the outcome.
I’m not sure what magic that bearded-hipster worked on my hair that day but I’m quite pleased with my new snazzy do. WORSE, I actually enjoyed the hipster experience that came along with it.
That was after I did the usual ‘leg it home in record time and hope you don’t bump into anyone you know’.
I don’t know who I think I am. Oh dear. *Puts on Raybans and books another appointment*