sashinka | observation orientated, with a twist of lime | a blog

Hello, Ms Frizz
So this afternoon, I'm in the West End, having been treated to lunch at Arthur's restaurant in Liberty's by R (wonderful ambience, but the slowest service I've seen in a while), rushing off to a meeting/interview type thing.

As you know, I've been having a week long good-hair-day, and it's been fabulous. All down to my new product. As I'm rushing down Oxford Street, a youngish, hippish guy stops me, "hey, darling, where d'you get your hair cut?" I'm so shocked I answer. We fall into an easy, scripted conversation about haircare. He's an Aussie hairdresser, Alex, just arrived five days ago, they're opening a new salon round the corner in Poland Street, would I like a year's worth of haircuts for £50? He's doing really well, until he says, "I know it's raining, so your hair's frizzy, but tell me, what products do you usually use?"

I don't want to punch him in the face, but I just don't like being told I've got frizzy hair. Even by hairdressers. Even cool Aussie ones. I smile and say I'm (a) in a hurry, (b) committed to my current hairdresser, and (c) can I think about it? He says no, it's a sign-up now deal. He starts rabbiting on about the salon and how he can show it to me, and it's a handover-the-money-now deal. Do I really look like someone who'd do that? Maybe I do. He starts talking about how hard it is to handle curly hair, and how often do I straighten it? (never) and do I want to feel his arm muscles to show how good he is at straightening hair? Then he starts telling me he's gay so.... I stop listening. He acknowledges that he's rabitting, lost me, and should move on. We part. I look in a shop window and really don't think my hair looks frizzy. Men, huh? Even gay-hairdresser-ones.