Heavenly Beverley : The Agony and the Ecstasy of Changing Hairdressers

Michael and I have always been somewhat nervous of haircuts. Preparing for the appointment, walking into the salon full of beautiful people, seating ourselves in front of those unflattering mirrors, chatting nervously about mohawks with the stylist and taking off our glasses, so that if the cut turns out to be a total disaster, we can't see the result instantly.

We both have a surfeit of crowns on our heads, I have been blessed with a witch's peak and we have very strong hair that may rebel without any warning. Particularly in the morning. How many times have I gazed absently at our mirror and thought "Ye Gods, how did that woman get into my bedroom and why did she stick her finger in a powerpoint?"

Previously, we have enjoyed the services of an experienced hairdresser coming to us and cutting our hair in the privacy of our living room. However, she has been forced to take a lengthy absence, due to health reasons. Effective immediately. Bollocks.

So, with great trepidation, we considered experimenting with a New Hairdresser today, whilst in the Big Smoke. We were only going as far as Midland. We were on a limited time frame. We couldn't afford a hip or upmarket establishment. But as Michael was resembling Grandpa Munster and I looked like I'd been dragged through a fence backwards, we did need to act.

I did remember Vanessa's favourable reviews of one of the Salon Express franchises. There was a branch in Midland. Prices were reasonable. They accepted walk-in appointments. Parking was available. And in the worst case scenario, if I did exit looking like Tim Minchin, my hair would grow again.

We took the plunge and confidently strolled in the front door of Salon Express in Midland. The receptionist was pleasant looking, cheerful and welcoming. Yes, the salon could accommodate us. Would we care to take a seat? With every fibre of my being shrieking RUN, I sat anxiously with Michael in the waiting chairs. We were in the sun which helped lull me into feeling more comfortable.

Michael was called first and was escorted over to the blokes' side of the salon by his hairdresser, Hannah. I was left on my own...to contemplate what I actually wanted. Same old, same old? Or try a new style that may suit me? Or not? Whilst considering these profoundly important questions, my eyes were drawn to the two hairdressers in front of me working with their current clients.

I sat bolt upright. One of these young women was a stunning lass with a very short haircut flipped up at the front. I looked at my own head in the mirror. Lots of hair at my forehead with a stiff curl, but overgrown sides that made me look like ten tonne Tessie and a scraggly, untidy back. Not to mention the hair sticking out at all angles fighting with my crowns. My decision was made in a flash. I wanted her hair.

Now I was excited. She introduced herself as Gronia. Irish and had been in Australia with her family for four years. She quipped that as she had been born on St Patrick's Day, she was given the most Irish of names that her parents could pick. Her Mum and sister were both hairdressers as well and her father cut his own hair. Which I found pretty funny when he was living in a house full of hairdressers.

Onto discussing My Hair. We talked about how to thin my round face (cut the sides short) and using my curl to my advantage at the front. She suggested that I stop trying to fight my crown and use it instead. She roared with laughter when I admitted I needed a more updated style as I was pretending to be a curator in our art gallery.

Michael reappeared from the Other Side. He looked fabulous. Hannah had cut his hair very well. Meanwhile, Gronia was snipping away left, right and centre around my head. Then, the haircut was finished. And I gasped.

I looked good. I felt good. She showed me the back of my head. True to her word, my hair was curling around and with my crown, rather than rebelling against it. The lesson didn't end there. She gave me Styling Tips for Idiots 101, even demonstrating how to use the wax with my fingers rather than in a blob on the palm of my hand.

I left, floating on air. The rest of the day passed in a blur of shopping and appointments. I didn't care. I had a new me.

Now if I can replicate it tomorrow after I wash my hair, I will be as happy as a pig in mud. Wish me luck.