Anna Hart on how she stopped being a ?salon slut? and finally settled down with her stylist
My name is Anna, and when it comes to haircuts I?ve always been a massive whore. My longest relationship with a stylist is three cuts, and even that was on-and-off, sullied by ill-advised flings on my part. In the past decade I?ve accumulated a number of excellent adult habits: daily Nutribullet concoctions, a weekly and wine session, regular 5K runs. Even a few beauty rituals: a lash lift with Beth at The London Dolls before a holiday, medi-pedis at Margaret Dabbs in Liberty. But hair has always been my beauty blindspot.
I am blessed/cursed with the most bog-standard of barnets: naturally mousy hair that I half-heartedly highlight and keep vaguely mid-length. Not curly enough to be wavy, nor straight enough to be silken. It is thoroughly average, inoffensive hair – but from the very beginning, I struggled to hoik it beyond ?acceptable?. My first ever haircuts without my mum present – £5 training cuts at Supercuts at Belfast?s In Shops – bafflingly failed to make me look like Buffy. Teenage attempts at any style more ambitious than ?up in a scrunchie? and ?down? resulted in tangled tresses and tears. GHDs were hailed as a hair revolution in the mid-noughties; they made my bob resemble a mushroom. So I gave up on hair, and ploughed all my vanity into vintage frocks and bright lipstick. As I cheerily explained to one dejected stylist (a one-afternoon-only fling in...