It's a funny thing, hair. Mine is particularly so. I have hair that has a social life all of its own. At least, I assume it does. I go to sleep and, at least in my eyes, my hair looks reasonably normal. Nothing major to write home about: I have plenty of it (mostly in the right places - I swear I've always had that thinning patch in the middle) and it is a colour that cannot easily be described. Not blonde, nor brown, certainly not red. The best that can be said of it is, well, nothing.
But when I wake in the morning, now that is a different story. My dull, slightly uninteresting barnet has clearly been out on the razzle and has barely made it back home in time to be in its rightful, cranial location by the time I peer, wearily into a mirror. It sticks out in all directions, upwards, outwards, sidewards, every thinkable direction. Like an errant teenager who has crept in from an all-night booze-up, slipt through the back door and slid into bed before their parents could notice.
That is my hair.
So there I was heading over to Sassy's in Wycombe (amazing salon by the way) to have it tamed just a little and I was pondering on the wonders of hair, particularly how come - as you reach a particular age - it stops growing where you'd like it and sets off on an adventure across the rest of your body. First it takes some tentative steps and explores the opportunities of your eyebrows, then, slowly, it starts to wander idly through your ears and nostrils, all the time heading south.
Before you know it, hair is growing more enthusiastically below your head than on it. Like it's run out of conviction that being up high is a good thing, and it would rather find a secluded spot down south to live - sort of like a pensioner moving to the coast.
But all of the time avoiding my chin. Yup. I still cannot grow a beard. Errant eyebrows? Yup. Nostrils? You bet. Ears? Most certainly. But can I grow a beard? Not a chance of it.
Sassy, as always, look on it as a challenge. Katherin always grins and is always positive while warily eyeing up the job in hand. We talk shop (holidays, work, kids, family) of course, but then the dreaded question: what would you like?
In my head I always answer "like George Clooney of course" but my mouth mutters something unconvincing like "just a trim" or some other incoherent instruction. Of course, with the way my hair is it makes little difference - it'll look neat and tidy, even styled when it's done. But then I will sleep. And my hair will head out for its nocturnal social life and I know, once more, I will wake and find the remnants of a great night out clinging precariously were anyone else would have hair.
Every five or six weeks we dance this dance and I love it: I love the massage, I love that Wycombe has little to no phone signal (I can relax for an hour), I love that Katherine is funny and smart, I love that she is rude but does it with such a big smile that it just makes you laugh when she climbs on her soap box about something or other. I love that she shows me the back of my head - the only time I have ever seen it - using mirrors and then she looks expectantly at me, maybe hoping I will say something original (of course I don't - like everyone else I just say something like "yes, that's great" or "perfect" while I am always bemused that there's nothing I could do at this stage anyway), I love the coffee and the 'salon' biscuit (apparently it's a type), I love the service and the attention to detail and I particularly love that I have been going there for 10 years and it feels like home.
And if you're wondering what the team at Sassy are capable of, here are just a few images. Enjoy!