I'm typing this while sitting at the hairdressers, chin-deep in a billowing black cape. I have a head covered in little tinfoil parcels containing chunks of hair that are slowly sauteing toward a lighter shade of something-or-rather. It's hardly attractive. There's something about hairdressers mirrors that make you look your pasty, flaky worst.
The lighting is designed to give the stylist the clearest view of what they're dealing with, but looking at your own reflection is depressing. When did I suddenly become the owner of six chins? And there are dark circles under my eyes that look like I've inserted the inner tube of a small child's bike tyre beneath them. Sigh.
Thankfully, my salon has WiFi, a coffee machine and a loud stereo - all essential distractions that, once I've been blow waved, snipped and sprayed and had a small mirror waved around the back of my head, I'm clearly happy to pay a week's grocery money for.
My hairdresser loves wine, too. We yak away about the bottles that wowed or underwhelmed us. He's also into guns and archery, anything that requires a precise target. I think it helps his eye for detail. It may also help him deal with the fact that when you're cutting or colouring someone's crowning glory, you have to get it right.
I've known my hairdresser for almost 14 years and I've watched him become more confident and at ease with his talent. He sends clients out the door with a wave then turns back into the salon with a huge smile on his face because he's so proud of his work.