Makeover day 1: Haystack Hair Interventions

Meeting my hairstylist match 

Six years ago I had sat in the exact same hair salon, although this time my reasons for being there were (thankfully) much different. In 2015 I'd been having a serious meltdown. 

'Why?' You may ask. 

Well, some three months after being discharged from hospital, my long blonde hair (at the time reaching well below my shoulder blades) had had enough of all the gunk that had been pumped into my body to try and save my life and so it rebelled and started to fall out - badly!

According to my mom, I was bald for rather a long time as a small child. When my hair eventually started to grow, mom kept on cutting it to encourage my strands to proliferate. As a combined outcome from mom's brave (but wise) intervention and probably also genetics, I wound up with a lot of hair as an adult. To be losing most of it was upsetting to say the least, and I came to dread brushing it, since each time I'd transfer more and more strands from my head to the hairbrush... I was forced to acknowledge that if I didn't do something about the situation, I'd soon return to my initial bald state.

Desperate, I popped in to the local pharmacy, in the (futile) hope that perhaps there was a magic potion I could buy. The pharmacist spotted me lurking in the hair products aisle and came to see if he could assist.

'Looking for something in particular?' He asked.

A miracle would be nice, I thought sadly, as I replied 'I was sick a few months back, and my hair is falling out. What would you recommend?'

'Perhaps a multi-vitamin to boost your system.' He suggested, pointing to a green and white branded option on the top shelf nearby. 'Actually, there's a hairstylist down the road who may be able to help, come let me give you her number' He said, already on his way to find her details.

I was at the point where I'd take any assistance I could get and obediently followed him to obtain her details.

I soon found myself in the Hairology salon, sitting in front of Delaine. She was a tiny lady, with long dark hair, and a welcoming smile. After draping me in a black L'Oreal cape she asked the age-old hairstylist question, 'What are we doing today?'

Trying not to show how upset I was, I explained the sorry situation to her. We discussed various options, which included some rather expensive hair products. However, inasmuch as I wanted to avoid acknowledging it, I knew there was only one sustainable solution, I started to cry 'I think you should cut it short.' I eventually managed.

She gently combed her fingers through my thin and wispy long hair as she contemplated the problem. 'Are you sure?' She asked

'No...' I replied woefully, sniffing a bit as I wiped my tears away with a tissue. 

I'm happy to report that the 'chop it off' intervention worked well, so well, in fact, that my hair grew back, and then continued to sprout like a weed. I've been a regular customer of Hairology since that day. I'd usually pop in every two to three months for a 'repair job', initially with Delaine, and in later years with Beaulah, depending upon whom was available to assist me. Both ladies equally skilled and proficient in dealing with my oftentimes wayward hair. 

Lockdown style isn't stylish

I've never been surrounded by men who notice hair. My dad wasn't a big fan of 'primping', perhaps he couldn't relate to needing to have one's hair done, since he had never had much of his own. My hubby also couldn't be described as one of the most observant of souls out there. Most of the time he didn't notice when I'd had my hair done. I eventually conceded that the reality of the situation was that I visited my hair magician more for my own vanity than anything else.  

Gerhard and I had been (mostly) model citizens since lockdown was declared, venturing out only to buy essentials, working from home and generally heeding the call to maintain social distancing. One of the outcomes being that I hadn't had a haircut or colour for aeons! Working from home, I could usually be found wearing a pretty top, paired with sweatpants and slippers.  Strategically placed lighting for those pesky video conference calls meant that I was able to get away with paying little to no attention to my hair. Mostly I just tied it up in a ponytail or stuffed it into a clip.  

For the initial levels of lockdown, there wasn't a whole lot to be done in any event, since the salons had all been closed. I did consider box dye, but Delaine had twenty sorts of fits when I broached the subject via text message one evening.  She was scary enough on the topic that I managed to avoid the temptations of grabbing a 'quick fix' in my sporadic forays to the supermarket. Eventually, my hair reached the point where, when we went out to buy supplies, I made sure to wear a hat or a strategically placed buff - I was disgusted to realise that I had a lot more grey hair than I thought!

An intervention is unavoidable

One of the things that they don't warn you about when you start writing a book, is that there will come a point in the process when you (as the author) need to make yourself look presentable, and have some reasonably decent photos taken.  This for inclusion on the back cover of the book.  Strangely, making use of the latest selfie on my cellphone camera roll wasn't up for consideration.  

Actually I dreaded the photo shoot, I didn't regard myself as particularly photogenic and was usually ultra critical of any pics of myself. I told myself that the timing was fortuitous - in addition to the required photo shoot, my birthday was around the corner, as well as our wedding anniversary.  These all seemed compelling enough reasons to send Hairology a text message. I explained the situation, secured an appointment with Beaulah and conveniently put the matter out of my mind.

The days flew by and before I knew it, I found myself sitting in the familiar chair at the salon, me and my lockdown, haystack hair under scrutiny.

Transformation loading...

'Hmmmm', said Beaulah with a frown on her pretty face as she considered the mammoth challenge in front of her. 

'What are we doing today?' came the familiar question.

'Uhm, can you fix it?' I asked hesitantly. 

She ran her fingers through my hair a few times, looking at me with a contemplative gleam in her eye. 'Sure, but it will take a while' she warned, well aware that I was terrible at sitting still for extended periods. 'Ok', I replied obediently, I really didn't have much choice in the matter.  She had made up her mind regarding what needed to be done, and abandoned me to stir up whatever magic she concocted at her mixing station. The usual black cape made its appearance and I was deemed ready for, what everyone in the salon seemed to agree would yield, a 'new me'. 

You realise its pretty bad when they ask permission to make a 'transformation' video.  'Err, sure'. I confirmed, somewhat bemused by all the fuss, even as I wondered how anyone managed to say 'no' when they asked so nicely? I almost immediately regretted agreeing, since the process required photos and videos of the disastrous state of affairs that was my 'before' look. 

Beaulah clearly had a plan, so I surrendered control to her and tried not to fidget in my chair. To pass the time, I busied myself with catching up on emails and social media, overhearing comments from others in the salon, 'That's going to look great', or the scarier one of, 'Sjoe, that's a big change'. I tuned it all out and scrolled through my Facebook feed. Beaulah had never let me down before, I just had to trust the process. Actually, I wasn't expecting too much of a difference to my usual look, believing that the results would be much the same as previously.
Not this time, however...

Leave it to the professional

This time Beaulah was on a mission, I started to smell a rat when I saw a few strands of hair poking out from the many foils she had put in, the colour definitely looked a lot darker than usual. I told myself I was imagining things and redirected my attention back to the text message I was responding to. Both Kate and Sarah (the leading ladies of my publishing team) were aware that it was 'hair intervention' day, and there was no escaping them. I fielded their questions by sharing a photo of what was arguably my best 'Martian' impression - I had enough foils on my head to sink a battleship.

Sarah responded to my text message, making her expectations of the end result very clear: 'Mega blonde'.

I stared at her message for while. Hmmm, I hated to break it to her, but Beaulah was in control of my hair and 'Mega Blonde' did not seem to be on the cards. Blondish yes, Mega? definitely not... My musings over whether my hair colour would pass muster with my publishing team was cut short, as I was summonsed to the rinsing bay. I decided that I'd deal with it in due course and stuffed my phone into my handbag.

A short while later, Beaulah was done and I was in awe. I'd forgotten what it was like to feel proud of my hair, and although the colour was significantly darker than usual - I loved it!

Some 3.5 hours later I left the salon with a spring in my step, feeling more human than I'd felt in months. I began to appreciate how different I looked when even Gerhard noticed (I received a 'nice' from him). Instead of dreading the photo shoot the following day, I found myself looking forward to it. 

Be bold, be brave, be me

Later that evening, Sarah sent a text reminding me that they were still waiting for the 'after' photos.  Fortunately Beaulah had taken a few shots of the back of my head, since by then I'd been for a quick run and destroyed the sleek style. Whilst my trot around the neighbourhood had quickly restored my hair to its usual curly chaos, it had helped me to put the matter into perspective.

I proudly sent my decidedly not mega blonde hair photos to the publishing group. I was pretty sure that this was not at all the look they had been expecting, however, I liked it and I'd decided that that was enough. I really needed to work on my annoying habit of trying to please everyone. 

The next day I would be back in Beaulah's chair to restore good order to my stubbornly mad hair; before I presented myself to the photographer. I knew that once Beaulah was done, at least the back of my head would make for great photos!

Here's what I've concluded:

* Writing a book was the easy part.  The hard work actually starts after you place the final full stop at the end of the last sentence. Had I known that I'd be in need of a two day makeover, perhaps I wouldn't have been quite as enthusiastic to publish my little word monster

* Reaching the point in ones life when you don't allow the expectations of others to dictate your actions is liberating. I'm not all that good at this yet, but I fully intend to improve

* Never underestimate the power that your hair stylist wields.  True unsung heroes, they fulfill many more functions than I originally gave them credit for - skilled in knowing when to speak up, when to take control and when to remain silent in all matters of life, hair and everything in between.

'I am currently under construction, thank you for your patience' 

Tiny Buddha

Published by Quickshift Publishing, Running in Heels is available on Amazon and will soon be in bookstores. For up to date information on when and where you can find your copy, please check out my website, sign up for my newsletter, or find me on Linkedin, Facebook, or Instagram.