Attention Hairdressers

As relationships go, me and my hair are pretty tight. It’s reasonably straight and healthy, does what I want it to, and (unlike my boyfriend) it doesn’t try and talk to me about Supercoach. But like most low-maintenance relationships, sometimes I forget to maintain it altogether.

Today, as I examined the ends of my hair (don’t judge me, I KNOW I’m not the only one who does this) I saw the beginnings of split ends. Apart from being a little excited about losing my split end virginity, I started to feel the nagging guilt that accompanies continued haircut avoidance.

First of all, I like my hairdresser, and secondly, she lives next door. Clearly dislike/proximity are not factors, so why, I hear you ask, do I avoid haircuts like I will probably come to avoid pap smears? Because (and I’m not being an elitist career snob) hairdressers obviously come from another planet. A planet on which “Just take a couple of centimetres off” means “Go ahead, hack off at least half the hair that I’ve spent months growing out.”

Where were all the hairdressers when God was handing out measurement skills? Or when their grade two teachers were demonstrating the difference between centimetres and inches? They were obviously playing Barbies in the corner or something, because I continue to walk out of the salon looking like I can’t decide whether I’m a boy or a girl. So until I feel confident that hairdressers have become less confused about units of measurement, I will continue to perform dodgy home jobs with the kitchen scissors.

Hairdressers everywhere, please. Let me and others like me enjoy long, shampoo-ad-worthy hair. As a rule of thumb: take the amount you think you should cut off, divide by four, then proceed.

I feel ya, Natalie Portman...