It was finally time. With my job in full swing and the minute the first pay cheque arrived, I took the plunge into Headmasters hair salon.
Despite the numerous recommendations of specialist hairdressers and the seemingly notorious fear of the blue haired Headmaster trainee, I decided to go and get my blonde back. When I phoned to make the appointment, I may have put the fear of God into the polite receptionist’s head. See below the highly effective approach:
– I desperately need a full head of highlights;
– I do not want a trainee to do it;
– I need someone who is not the most expensive, but rather highly experienced (i.e the second most expensive setting me back at £130. Rationale being I only need this twice a year);
– A colourist who doesn’t believe in chunky stripes leaving you to look like a tiger;
– Nor a colourist who thinks bleach can never result in dried out cheese curls.
With that being said, her nervous laughter booked me an appointment with Christina – ‘the master’. That day at work, I could barely contain my excitement. A couple of my colleagues noticed my Cheshire cat grin and when I gave the reason, I’m not sure why I didn’t get the same excitement back. It didn’t matter! I arrived early at Southside Shopping Centre in Wandsworth (ridiculously convenient considering my two minute walk home). Walking through the doors, I was faced with shelves of glory. Every possible hair product I recognised lay before me – hello Keratase and my old friend; Paul Mitchell.
Headmasters’ shelves of glory
Being seated opposite a mirror, Christina sat down next to me and asked me how she could help. It felt like a psychology session where I could vent out all my stress and anxiety experienced through mousey brown roots. She understood everything I was saying. And what’s more, she never took a step back when I basically told her exactly how I wanted her to use the foil. One layer bleach; one layer highlight and very thin strands.
In one hour, I sat beneath layers of foil looking like a satellite dish. She offered me tea, heat magazines and ginger biscuits. So far so good! My only worry began to set in when she suggested I needed to sit for half an hour before she needed to wash it all out. Forty five minutes later, I was on my third cup of tea. Praying my hair wouldn’t fall out and I wouldn’t have to hear my mum’s, ‘I told you so’, I was whisked off to the basin. Whatever the result would be, the head massage was was worth it.
Back to the mirror and I knew immediately I had found my London hairdresser. A perfect combination of natural looking blonde slowly revealed itself upon each blow wave motion. Noticing my grin, we gave each other the nod of approval.
No greater joy than a new country, and a hairdresser that gave me the exact equivalent of my ten year loyalty with old faithful Amanda in Johannesburg.
Finished result ‘selfie’