Yesterday I got my hair bobbed. I’m not quite sure why I decided on the bob as my cut of choice, since in my own life it’s associated with being fourteen and blow-drying myself to tears every morning trying to get those ends rolled under, the sides sitting out wide and the fringe super high and spiky. (Like Martha, I had Chelsea Redfern as my model.) Probably it was because I’m tired of my layers drying out and splitting every four or five weeks, leaving me with a patina of frizz over the top of my otherwise spiffing do.
My hairdresser rolled all the ends under with a skill I could only have dreamed of in 1989, and although the end result was sleek, I was a bit aghast to see myself transformed into Miss Moneypenny (whom you know is always smart-casual even on her days off). After some re-wetting and re-drying at home I got something closer to the look I had in my head, but still expect to be busted for reverting to a shadow of my fourth-form ways at more than twice that age.
As well as the bob I have a range of stripy highlights in red and blonde, since my ideal colour aesthetic seems still to be in synch with Geri Halliwell, circa 1996. However, these highlights are on a mocha base, which is the latest thing in brown, my stylist assured me. I much like these, however regressive my taste. The whole thing wasn’t cheap, although, even allowing for price increases it will be a few years yet before I pay for that holy grail of the upper middle class: the hundred dollar haircut.
