How the other half lives: Bryony Gordon on the transformational power of a haircut - I am holding my ponytail in my hand. In front of me. That’s a foot of hair, and seven years of not cutting it, kaput in an instant. There is no going back now, not without the help of sticky tape, or Wag-like hair extensions.
The salon seems oddly quiet as they try and survey my face for clues of what I am thinking. Will I burst into tears and start beating the floor in horror? Will I start quoting from the story of Samson? It takes a while for it all to sink in, and when it does … I squeal with delight.
Who knew a simple haircut could make such a difference? I am standing taller (has my hair been weighing me down?), and I seem to have cheekbones. I want to kiss the face of my hairdresser, Daniel Galvin Jr.
He has a look of pure relief etched all over him. I skip out of the salon and back to the office. People do double-takes. They tell me they do not recognise me. One colleague asks, ‘Have you changed your eyes in some way?’
I try to explain to him that one cannot change one’s eyes, but when I look in the mirror I see he has a point – they look defined, different, catlike.
Is it a bit dramatic to say that a haircut can change your life? Who cares! I am skipping through January with a spring in my step – it may be miserable out but I am on top of the world. I realise I have spent the past seven years or so hiding behind my hair, like Cousin Itt from The Addams Family, or Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin. Which is not a good look for a woman of 30.
I go out with friends to Shoreditch House. We drink dirty martinis and smoke fags by the pool. Chloe says she is going to go one further and shave all her locks off. Later a friend of hers arrives. He is a theatre actor and is so handsome he makes my eyes water – whenever I have met him before I have been too terrified to bleat more than a ‘hello’ at him.
This evening he sits down beside me and takes my chin in his hands. ‘I’ve never been able to see your face before,’ he says. ‘But, now I can, I see you’re really rather beautiful.’ And then he asks me out for dinner. ( telegraph.co.uk )
The salon seems oddly quiet as they try and survey my face for clues of what I am thinking. Will I burst into tears and start beating the floor in horror? Will I start quoting from the story of Samson? It takes a while for it all to sink in, and when it does … I squeal with delight.
Who knew a simple haircut could make such a difference? I am standing taller (has my hair been weighing me down?), and I seem to have cheekbones. I want to kiss the face of my hairdresser, Daniel Galvin Jr.
He has a look of pure relief etched all over him. I skip out of the salon and back to the office. People do double-takes. They tell me they do not recognise me. One colleague asks, ‘Have you changed your eyes in some way?’
I try to explain to him that one cannot change one’s eyes, but when I look in the mirror I see he has a point – they look defined, different, catlike.
Is it a bit dramatic to say that a haircut can change your life? Who cares! I am skipping through January with a spring in my step – it may be miserable out but I am on top of the world. I realise I have spent the past seven years or so hiding behind my hair, like Cousin Itt from The Addams Family, or Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin. Which is not a good look for a woman of 30.
I go out with friends to Shoreditch House. We drink dirty martinis and smoke fags by the pool. Chloe says she is going to go one further and shave all her locks off. Later a friend of hers arrives. He is a theatre actor and is so handsome he makes my eyes water – whenever I have met him before I have been too terrified to bleat more than a ‘hello’ at him.
This evening he sits down beside me and takes my chin in his hands. ‘I’ve never been able to see your face before,’ he says. ‘But, now I can, I see you’re really rather beautiful.’ And then he asks me out for dinner. ( telegraph.co.uk )
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