Fact: I hate having my hair cut.
I've been going to a top end salon for some years now, after Mrs F-C, tiring of my dreadful, unmanageable locks which she felt lacked substance, style and direction, frog-marched me into Charles Worthington. It was the worst thing she could ever have done, but once I got into the swing it was just about okay. I was used to Supercuts, and had no problem with the knife an fork look.
The girl at CW who cut my hair was an amusing Australian, and I really didn't mind going to her. But then she announced she was pregnant and left, leaving me with a man who I felt took no notice of my wishes. Once that was ironed out, it was fine. But I still dreaded it.
Then he moved on and following a secret phonecall, I went with him. And so for the past three years I've been a regular at Lee Stafford in Soho. I like the guy who cuts my hair, because he's not a chatter, and to me there's nothing worse than a chatty hairdresser. I've always felt salons should be divived into talking and no talking sections, with me obviously plumping for the latter. But you can't park, it's quite tricky to get an appointment if you miss one, and it's horribly expensive.
So this week, having missed an appointment and in dire need of a trim, I bit the bullet and made an appointment at a trendy new establishinment not more than a few doors away from work. This is Camden, I was a bit worried.
But what a revlation. It's the best haircut I've ever had. I look like Daniel Craig! Alright, Wendy Craig, but it's still great. However, the manager who cut my hair could not have been nicer, and even inisisted on showing me round this vast salon and all it had to offer. He's after business, but he did it in a nice way.
So I'll be going there from now on, and I shall never dread it again.
Now I can jet off on holiday with confidence. No more clown hair for me. Not for a while anyway.
See you in a week or so.
*(more wishful thinking)
