Scissor necklace, £210, by tinalilienthal
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20 Nov
Writer Tory Frost has found the perfect woman. Her hairdresser
It’s a funny feeling when you realise you really want to be someone’s friend. Sometimes it’s because they share your deep love for Claudia Winkleman, or maybe because they they have really good eyebrows, but for me it’s usually that they have top-notch beauty skills.
I know I’m not alone in being a bit itchy about who goes near my hair, but it took me four years to find the only London hairdresser I trust. That’s 48 months of accidental Rachels, ageing layers and blank stares when I trotted in with my pictures of Alexa Chung’s fringe.
And then I was recommended lovely Claire of Foster London by a close and trusted friend. I believe it almost always takes a tip-off to find your dream hairdresser. I’ll try a take-away, unlicensed cab firm or GP based entirely on their proximity to my home – all of which could, with extreme bad luck, lead to sickness or death – but the chance to cut my hair is harder to land than a ripe avocado.
Claire is the the only hairdresser who understands my cutting references (‘Ashley Olsen’s bob circa 2006’ or ‘a less mullety Chrissie Hynde’), and believes me that I cannot use conditioner. The woman just came back from Paris and Milan Fashion Weeks – something that both proves her skill and makes me feel glamourous by association. Most importantly, her scissor skills are second to none – she recently gave me the most perfect shoulder-length blunt cut that should be immortalised in wig form for future generations to enjoy.
The problem is, I don’t just want Claire to cut my hair. I also want to go for a drink after and then maybe a bit of light karaoke. I follow her on Twitter, which led to Instagram, and now I fear I’ve become her cyber stalker, but it really is a simple case of girl meets hairdresser, gets on really well and doesn’t know whether it would be inappropriate to see if she fancies going for some post-cut nachos.
I must confess, this is not my first beauty friendcrush.
There’s a Teesside-based waxer whose birthday party I invited myself to, and I recently found a cheap Dalston manicurist whose Shellac lasts a month, and stopped short of asking her to move in. Tell me I’m not alone in falling for my beauty professionals?
Yes, I also demand exacting standards, but I’m just not likely to keep returning to someone I don’t want to share a bottle of white Rioja and pictures of my nephew with. Haidressers are some of the few comparative strangers who physically touch you on a semi-regular basis – it has to be right or it’s juts a bit skeevy.
Besides, the trust implied in letting someone change your look is significant. Perhaps my desire to turn a business relationship to friendship comes from the intimacy of spending a whole hour one-to-one every few months.
It’s the perfect balance of easy conversation and great results that means I’ve so far followed Claire through a salon change (thank God she let me know where she was going) and three promotions (with their requisite price hike). But I have to accept that the girl styles for Meadham Kirchoff and Chloe; there will undoubtedly come a time when her deserved success means I can no longer afford her services.
My lowly locks may have to be tended to by another. My choice is simple – eschew all shopping and one meal a day the month of a cut, for the guarantee of that deeply chuffed feeling I leave her chair with, or start the hunt again.
But when you find the hairdresser who can see you through the difficult fringe-growing year, the torment of deciding whether or not to recut that fringe, and renewing of your frazzled hair after a home ombre attempt, you don’t just bin them, you book your cuts six weeks in advance and make sure they have your email address so they can tell you if they ever dare move.
So as long as I’m in a 300 mile radius of London and have hair on my head, the mortgage and kids will have to wait. A hairdresser who’s a cut above is far harder to get.
The post Scissor Sisters appeared first on Sali Hughes Beauty.
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