Cut-o-phobia

Over the years, I've developed a bit of a phobia against hairdressers. I've never burst into tears after hours of agony, only to see my poor locks fall to the floor, leaving me looking like a Barbie doll that's been given the obligatory shaven head - treatment. (I have had a shaved head once, but that I did myself).

No, it's not that bad. It's just a returning feeling, every time I look in the mirror after another attempt to face my fears, a feeling of "well I've could've done that myself", a feeling that they are not really living up to my expectations, a feeling that they just don't UNDERSTAND me nor my poor locks, once thick like horse hair, now ever thinning and of that hated "Nordic" fine quality. If I am to part with money, I want miracles. This may come from my teenage years, when I was a bit of a DIY queen when it came to doing my own hair. Black and red hair? No problem. Dreadlocks? (What can I say, I was young and listened way too much to Rage against The Machine) Done.That, as well as the aforementioned shaved head.

The thing is though, my wishes and desires when it comes to my hair have changed a bit since. Now, I would be happy with shiny hair. Undamaged hair. And I'm sure that all hairdressers are out to stress my hair to the point of breaking it or have it simply fall of.

You see, I found a brilliant salon in London. One of the best salons in the world, probably. Real Hair. Apparently, my hairdresser was trusted with the hair of Vidal Sassoons wife. That reassured me. I felt safe in a hairdressers hands for the first time since I was 13 (when we had the incredible luck of having the headmaster of the hairdressers school as our personal family hairdresser. I swear, I've never had as good hair as the school photo when I was 12.) and they didn't let me down. They managed to turn my hair that wanted almost-white colour and together we came up with a do that made even the hairdresser himself stunned by his own brilliance (well, together with my own : )). Birds sang and all was happy ever after.

Til I had to get my roots done. This safety and bird singing I got in the London salon came with a quite hefty price tag. So I decided to go for the budget option, let a local salon have a try. I mean, it's only the roots, right?

Wrong.
Three breath holding hours later I came out with part white, part yellow hair, and when I got home, I couldn't help but notice that quite a big bit of the top hair had simply BROKEN so that only a few centimeters was left, creating a Dennis the Menace-like little lock on the top of my head. Needless to say, I'm not going back to Central Studio.

The problem remains: What AM I going to do next time I have to get my roots done? Go back to London, tail between legs and beg for forgiveness for my infidelity? I see no other option, if I want to keep the rest of my hair. That, or go back to the shaved head.