Everyone who has ever cut my hair

Some of the names are now lost in the mists of time, if I ever knew them in the first place, but as far as I can remember this is a list of everyone who has ever cut my hair (a list that compiled itself while I had my hair cut today)


My mother - inflictor of many a crooked fringe as a child. Strangely I still allowed her to cut the back of it when I was a student.


Carron - a friend of a friend of the family. She has arthritis in her hands despite being in her twenties but somehow could still cut her. She was the first glamorous person I remember wearing glasses.

A series of ladies at "Cutz" - responsible for the awful "Wolf Cut" that was apparently all the rage (where outside of lupine circles, I'm not sure). They were also very fond of using the tongs on my fringe .

Lisa - a childhood friend of mine who I hadn't seen of spoken to for years. She came round our house to cut everyone's hair. We were both too shy to make conversation. It was awkward. She's recently been in touch via Facebook.


The Hard-Faced Blonde - I was a student and after years of the same hair style, having spent ages growing out the ever-present fringe in my late teens, I decided I would go for a change. I picked a salon in the centre of Norwich and was determined I would go for something different. I was ready to explain that I didn't think my round face would suit anything too harsh, but my hairdresser was a hard-faced woman with a very severe haircut that didn't suit her face at all, so I was unable to say that. Instead I had a trim.

The Cutting Crew - I don't remember anything about the hairdresser or the cut, but the bailiffs came to repossess some things while I was having my hair washed.

Julie - a lovely hairdresser in my hometown who would cut my hair on my visits home in my early years of living in London. Her usual customers were the set and rinse crowd, so she liked playing with my young, straight hair.


Mavis aka the one that got away - after Julie's salon closed, I asked my mother to make an appointment for my visit at another local salon. Unknown to me, there were two next door to each other. She made the appointment with the wrong one. I decided that a) I didn't want my hair cut there and b) it didn't need a cut yet. So I rang to cancel and the woman said "I'll let Mavis know" and I was convinced I'd made the right decision.


The Lonely Chinese Man - my first hairdresser in London and the first hairdresser to give me a head massage - it gave me a headache. I'm pretty sure I didn't ever find out his name. He used to ask what I was doing that night, but specificially where he might be able to find me. He spent Christmas on his own at the cinema. He cut my hair several times, but one day I went back and he was gone.


The Big Girl - at the same salon as the above. She was alright. She was a big girl with a big personality and a very dated perm.


The Blonde Aussie druggie with a rich boyfriend - again at the same salon, I sometimes got this nightmare instead of the Big Girl. A man once came in and sold her drugs while she was washing my hair. The shop owner chased him away. She was apparently dating a very rich man with yacht and was setting sail around the world with him, but by my next visit, he had dumped her. She made a terrible mess with the hair dye.


Justina and the Big Greek Man - a one-time visit to a salon near the gallery I used to volunteer at. The Big Greek Man was the owner, who instructed Justina on the hair dye part, without consulting me. It came out bright red around the roots, auburn everywhere else. I stayed another two hours, while they tried to make it all one colour again.


Sonia - Sonia is a great hairdresser but a dreadful time-keeper. Your appointment time is just the time you are welcomed into the salon, the actual cut (always good and quick once it started) would usually happen 2 hours later. She had previously been an accountant in Iran.


Daniella - briefly worked at Sonia's and cut my hair once when Sonia was too busy with the fifteen other people who had been waiting hours. She did quite a good job.


Marta the Butcher - Also at Sonia's. The worst haircut I've ever had. The fringe, cut in first, with layers. On my birthday.


Esme - a friend of my sisters' and my favourite hairdresser. She cut it twice, but then went freelance because she was sick of the low pay in the salon and I never quite managed to arrange to see her again.


Lynne - owner of the salon that Esme worked at. She could cut hair, but her bedside manner left a lot to be desired. She insisted on putting my hair up as part of some special Christmas promotion.



Carly - another friend of my sisters' and worker in the same salon as above. I've witnessed her eating both portions of a two-for-one deal on scampi and chips, although this was in the pub and not in her capacity as a hairdresser at all.


Georgina - the current hairdresser, who all in all I'm quite happy with.

With a fringe on the top

My hair has always been more or less the same. I was born with full head of dark brown hair, and then any photographs of me, it is long, straight and brown. I must have had short hair at some point to go from the baby fluff to the long hair, but there is no documented evidence of this. For 30-odd years, I have had more or less the same hair style. The only major variation has been the issue of the fringe.

From the age of 3 to 16, I had a fringe. From ages 3 to 9 it was invariably a badly cut, wonky fringe, courtesy of my mother. Around the age of 10, hairdressers were obviously invented, and the fringe became straight. At 15, I wanted rid of the fringe. It seemed to take years to get rid of it properly and I spent much of the ages 16 to 18 hiding behind the awkward growing out stage.

I lived happily without fringe for probably over a decade, when somehow a hairdresser persuaded me to let it back into my life. The last few years have seen me swing from fringe to not fringe. and most recently being in the no man's land of the "sweeping side fringe". When I'm without a fringe, I admire the sharp, 60s style fringes of others, and imagine a fringe for myself like this:

With this thought in mind, I allowed the return of the fringe on Saturday. The elfin hairdresser seemed to greet the idea of the fringe with enthusiasm - I think she was more bored with the sweeping side fringe than I was. When it was cut, she proudly announced "It's back!". I was less keen. Now I am with fringe again, I'm looking enviously at those with cascading fringe-less hair and when I think of fringes and look in the mirror, this image comes to mind.

Victim (again)

I've been a victim of another dubious haircut. Not as bad as the last time., but disconcerting all the same.

To avoid the Butcher Arta, I made a Sunday appointment with Sonia. The only time she could see me was 8.30. Yes, in the morning, on a Sunday. I turned up for my clandestine appointment at the allotted time (can clandestine be in the morning? it has an after dark ring to it). As ever, she was running late - still doing the person before me (she was only doing the two of us today though, hence the odd hours) - but so as not to attract attention from any passers-by who might want a cut, she'd kept the lights out.

I haven't had my hair cut since the very bad one months ago so it was in need of a good cut. But then she got carried away. Cutting a little off here, then a little off there, then more off there to even it up, oops too much, more off the other side. It was like that episode of Father Ted were the prize car has a small dent in it that Ted tries to hammer out and then next thing you know the whole car is a wreck.

I've examined it - in every mirror in the house and the window of every shop and car I've walked past today and it isn't actually a bad haircut. Its soft and bouncy and healthy looking. But it just isn't me. I've always had long hair and although it had been creeping shorter, this now is definitely not long hair. Its above my shoulders. I don't look like me or perhaps too much like me as my face and neck are vulnerably exposed. People won't recognise me. I'll have to wear a name badge.

My own Britney moment

No, I didn't go out without any underwear or marry/divorce a white-trash wannabe rapper.

Last weekend, I had a bad haircut.

I hadn't mentioned it before now as it seemed churlish - its hardly the end of the world, it will grow back, at least I still have my health etc. But I've just re-examined it and it is awful.

Unlike Britney's, mine wasn't self-inflicted, but caused by Arta (of Yugoslavic origin) as opposed to my usual hairdresser Sonia (from Russia, where she was an accountant!). Sonia is a wizard with the scissors and a wonder with the hairdryer. Arta is a butcher.

I didn't say anything in the salon hoping it would look better when I got home and besides there isn't much that can be done when too much has been hacked off.

The sides and back are ok, its the front that is the shocker. And I still can't quite put my finger on what exactly is wrong with it, but I think she might have put a few layers in the fringe bit(!!), its too short and not especially even.

'Its not that bad' said the OH helpfully 'although it does look a bit Eastern European' he added accurately, but less helpfully.

So I've spent the week trying to sweep it back without it looking like a comb-over and experimenting with scarves and hairbands. It will grow back but until then I'm avoiding any unnecessary social engagements.