Hair today – still hair tomorrow

The ongoing bafflement about what to do with my hair reached a climax this morning. A family wedding next weekend demands it short. Beloved Other Half likes it long. I spend half my time cursing its length, and the other half feeling rather pleased with it.

The upshot is that at one minute past nine this morning I walked into a unisex salon that Beloved Other Half used to visit two owners ago and threw myself on the mercy of a rather nice Chinese stylist called Nina, who was understandably confused to be asked to make my hair look short while actually leaving it long.

After throwing her hands in the air a couple of times and asking “but what you want me DO with it?” she eventually realised she wasn't going to get any sort of clear steer from me and took matters into her own hands. She detected the remains of 11-month-old layers, turned her nose up on hearing which of her local rivals had been responsible for them, and then set about putting a new set of her own in.

Twenty minutes later there seemed to be a remarkably small amount of hair on the floor, but the effect on my head was disproportionately dramatic. Instead of looking like a long-haired, dark version of Boris Johnson I am now svelt and Depp-like. Well, fat and Depp-like. But you know what I mean.

I like it, a lot.

I just don't know what my mother's going to say, that's all…