needs grown up hair.
So this morning, I'm at the hairdresser's, hair knotted in a dye-ball on top of my head, huddled under the heat-spider, waiting for my timer to ping.
ping-ping; ping-ping; ping-ping; ping-ping; PING-PING
My hairdresser comes stumbling from the back of the shop, eyes bleary-blurry with tears, and runs out of the shop. I feel a sense of anxiety.
Eventually, a girl comes and turns off the heat-spider, and leads me to the torturous backwards basins, where I submit to a rinsing, shampooing and head massage. And then back to my seat. Where I sit. And sit. Eventually, another hairdresser comes and tells me that my hairdresser has had to go home, and nobody else has time to cut my hair this morning. They are all fully booked. I can borrow a hairdryer, if I like, and come back later in the week?
Operation Shush won't wait till later in the week, so I leave with my hair wet, and drive into Leamington, where I am able to persuade a new hairdresser to give me a last minute appointment.
When I get to work, my colleagues don't recognise me. Result!
