I never go to the hairdresser. Ever. Well, that is not completely true, as I did go four years ago. And before that it was five years. (Have you noticed the progress?) Which means, I cut my own hair. It shows, my sister told me recently. Thanks, sis.

It is just that I am never, ever happy with the result. A waste of good money. And when I sit in that chair with that black cape over my shoulders, I always feel so small and timid and I don’t dare to say that she is doing it all WrOnG. I just keep my mouth shut, feeling utterly miserable and unhappy. My face always looks awful in a hairdressers mirror, I see all the wobbly and hanging bits, my pale skin, the terror on my face. I rather go to the dentist, I am Not Kidding. As I child my hairdresser was terrible a this job. AlWaYs crooked fringes, always. I should find a photo to proof it. Basically, this whole hairdresser thing is a childhood trauma. I suddenly realize that while writing this down.

But anyway. It. Is. Time.

Time for a professional haircut. I’d said that I would go after the party. Well, the party is over, my hair looks like a dead birds nest with a burnout. No more excuses, nope.

                                          I. Am. Going. To. Have. A. Haircut.

And off I went to the salon to make an appointment. Oh yes I did. But there were no customers and she could cut my hair right now, if I wanted. Well, let’s get on with it then. And then the moment was there. Into the chair. The cape on my shoulders. Then the talk, the question.

‘What do you want me to do with your hair?’
Well, I rather wish you’re not touching it. At all.
‘I need a haircut. I want this length.’ Me showing her with my hand near my ear where she must cut. ‘Do not cut anywhere else, only this.’ I was firm. With a voice that meant ‘don’t you dare to mess with me, or …’

She was nice and got the point, as she probably realized: don’t mess with this one, she could be dangerous. She didn’t try to start an idle conversation with me, as something hairdressers tend to do. I had no interest in talking, whatsoever, had to pay attention. This time I wouldn’t let the hairdresser overrule me, no way, this time I was in charge.

And guess what, she did a marvellous job. Of course she tried to pursue me into buying some crème, but I have enough hair-stuff at home (not working) as it is.

So, you want to see the before and after photo’s, I guess?

Here is the before-photo. A bird’s nest with a burnout, you see?
Hair before

And here’s the after-photo. Are you ready?


Are you?


Well, here it comes ……






Are you sure? You still can go back, you know?


BTW: The photo was taken after my ride back (on my bike) home.

But anyway, here ….. it …. comes …. (please be nice to me) …..


Short hair. You can see my neck. It feels good. Wow.




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5 Responses to Haircut

  1. I identify to a certain extent with your feelings when you go to the hairdresser. I am lucky in that I now have a hairdresser who comes to my house and does it for extra income. He is now almost a friend and it is much less scarey.

  2. Sorry! Should have said that the new haircut looks good on you.

  3. Manon says:

    Love love
    The haircut

    I’m proud of u
    Het ziet er fantastisch uit.

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