Imagine you have a fringe.
I know, I know. Most of you probably wouldn’t dare. It’s difficult to tell if it will suit you and supposedly ‘bangs’ are never a good idea. However, for myself, I feel like a fringe balances out the small forehead to many chins ratio.
Anyway, picture the scene. You have a fringe. Your fringe is getting to the point that when the wind blows you look like Cousin It, so you set out a 15 minute portion of your day to nip along to the hairdresser. Most places do this for free and you were assured the last time you were in the salon that you were more than welcome to pop in for a free fringe trim at any time.
So, you do indeed ‘pop’ into your hairdresser (I don’t know why but when someone ‘pops’ I imagine them skipping) and ask for the girl who last cut your hair. Unfortunately she’s isn’t in, but hallelujah another hairdresser is there and after some umm-ing and ahh-ing about her next appointment agrees to do you a solid and cut your wiggy hair.
The woman is nice, a bit older, maybe in her 60s with long pinky/grey hair. In my head, alarm bells are ringing. I don’t know this woman, I don’t know her skills, maybe she’s merely impersonating a hairdresser to get some kind of sick thrill out of making people look like they’ve just escaped a psychiatric ward. Nevertheless, my need to not look like an actual mop wins and I reluctantly get into her swivel chair.
The scenes that follow are rated 12 and are not suitable for younger viewers.
She straightens my fringe to within an inch of it’s poor wee life. She takes my fringe in her evil fingers and she chops a straight line across my forehead. I am ruined. I am a disaster. I am never leaving this salon, I will hide under the weird stand-alone sinks forever and rely solely on Lotus bisuits and tap water.
I tell myself it’s fine, it will look better when I wash it and style it myself. These things always look a bit naff when you first get them done. Edwina Scissorhands ‘tidies up’ the corners of my disastrous bangs and I thank her and leave the salon.
I can’t believe I thanked her. Walking along the road towards my flat I send a picture to a friend and all that I get in reply is ‘hahahahaha’. Not the most supportive message.
I look in the mirror when I get home and god almighty it’s even worse than I thought. It is genuinely like someone cut it with a ruler. No blending whatsoever. None at all. This is a fiasco. I have genuinely never had a worse haircut. I am close to losing it.
As is the case with these kinds of situations, if you don’t laugh you might actually cry. So, naturally, I started an Instagram highlight and allowed people to follow my fringe story. If I can’t get some kind of satisfaction out of this godforsaken fringe I might as well lob it all off and do a Natalie Portman. Don’t worry I definitely don’t have the bone structure.
So, thank you woman in the salon-that-shall-not-be-named. Thanks for the laughs and thanks for making me look like I cut my own fringe, in the dark, with a butter knife.