The big chop

My mother cut my hair. This may be in the past tense but I’m not talking 30 years ago, it was last week.

For an ex-beauty editor this is like a chef saying: “I just scoffed a Tesco Value ready-meal”; or a sommelier admitting to; “quaffing a bottle of Lambrusco.” But needs must. I haven’t blow-dried my hair since the arrival of Country Bebe, let alone ventured near a salon and my split ends were BAD, so in a weak moment, I let my mum attack them with her rather blunt kitchen scissors.

The split ends may be gone (it looks like a rabid labrador gnawed them off), but it has only spurred me on to get my hair back into some semblance of the glossy mane I maintained pre-motherhood.

Every two or so years I think it’ll be a good idea to grow out my fringe and cut my hair short. It never is. I always hate it and then I have to begin the ‘growing out’ process till it’s back to where it was to begin with. So, I’ve done the growing part (just past the shoulder) now:  The Fringe. Please see exhibit A; my fringe guru, Zooey Deschanel:

Deschanel does good bangs, doesn’t she? I like to think of us as long-lost hair twins. The wavy lengths, the mid-brown tones with a few caramels chucked in and crucially, the heavy but not blunt fringe. I want it back, my glasses/eyebrows/forehead don’t look the same without it. So, next Friday is Fringe Day. I’m all booked in for two hours of babyless, indulgent beauty time which only a fellow mum who hasn’t pee’d alone for six months would understand the pure thrill of. I can’t wait.