I'm not one for haircuts. I should probably re-phrase that. I am one for haircuts but recent circumstances (children mainly and lack of ready cash) means that I haven't had very many recently. I splashed out just before Adam was born, 3 1/2 years ago and had a very nice one done. The next haircut was 18 months later, just before Luke was born, scarily meaning having babies was as frequent an activity as cutting my hair. Then I cut it again just before we came out here; another 18 month gap.
My hair had got to the lengths where it was starting to get really irritating. So it was with some trepidation that I ventured forth, last night to submit my locks to a Bosnian hairdressers scissors. She was recommended by a friend of mine who always looks glamourous and has amazing hair. Even better, she lives downstairs from said friend and she could cut my hair in the evening. So, having put the boys to bed off I went.
Now, I have a few conditions for any haircut which can be summarised as follows:
1. I must be able to tie it back out of my eyes.
2. If it needs blow drying or any form of styling product of any form then it is a disaster
3. It needs to be able to grow out well - given my previous record it is likely to be 18 months before I get to the hairdressers chair again.
So, I sat down, went through this list of conditions and said off you go. Now, I am the proud possessor of a sleek bob (currently tied back... obviously!). It wasn't totally what I was expecting, but it was a job well done. And at 5 KM who's to complain?
Next stop, sorting out the boys. Luke isn't looking too bad, a hairdresser came round the nursery not so long ago and I signed him up. He was the only one who didn't cry and reappeared looking very smart. Adam, on the other hand, screams blue bloody murder whenever he sees a set of scissors approaching his flowing locks with the result that the only person to have cut his hair since we left the UK has been me. I am totally untrained, never even had a teenage cutting my own hair phase and find trying to address a wriggling, caterpillar-like child with his hands covering as much of his hair as possible to be unconducive to my attempts to learn the trade. It has been a case of cut what I can where I can, giving up after a set period of time and trying not to mind that my child looks like a street urchin who has never in his life had access to a set of scissors.
We are booked in for Saturday morning.