I loathe going to the hairdresser.
It’s not the chatty questions. It only takes a few minutes for my hairdresser to realise how boring my life is, and inevitably an uncomfortable silence descends. And as neither of us can walk away, the atmosphere becomes awkward.
I applaud my friends who have hairdresser besties. I have never harnessed the knack of engaging in small talk for longer than one standard drink.
It’s not sitting in front of the mirror for hours on end, thinking:
I swear I looked better than this when I left the house.
And it’s not the cost — although it is outrageous how much I spend on my hair. My husband often reminds me that his monthly haircut costs $22.
It’s the resentment I feel being stuck in a chair with time to reflect, overanalyse, and make a mental list of all the chores I haven’t done — and could be doing — if I wasn’t staring at my imperfect reflection.
Not that I would do any of the chores if I were home.
I’d be in front of the TV, iPad in hand, hunting for bargains on eBay.
I am a champion procrastinator.ator.