It was the hairdresser who broke the news.
Is there anything nicer for a mother of small children to have a couple of hours at the hair salon? Grown up time, a little bit of luxury. No small people hassling you for bikkies or drinks of milk.
If there is, please let me know as soon as possible.
Because I can never ever ever go to the hairdresser ever again.
You’re greeted at the door of a lovely salon by a friendly hairdresser. You’re shown to your seat and offered a cup of tea and a magazine.
As you flick through the pages and start to relax, your stylist comes over to talk through what you’re after for the day.
She starts to run her fingers through your hair as you’re talking. Suddenly, she pauses. She looks closely at your head and murmurs, “one moment please.”
You watch her as she walks over to her manager and has a quiet word. They both approach you, and the stylist carefully parts your hair so the manager can inspect your scalp.
They look at each other knowingly and the manager nods.
Your stylist turns to face you and says, “I’m so sorry. We can’t do your hair today...”
So, if you can think of something else for me to do for my me-time, or if you have any ideas about what to do with crazy long grey hair, please let me know.
Because I am never ever ever going to the hairdresser again.
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