Oh, so sorry.
Not the words you want to hear on the very first snip, having requested a trim, as you watch many centimetres of hair fall to the ground.
Perhaps I should have known better. I’d already had a win.
Earlier this year I had finally braced myself for a salon haircut, after two years of just letting it grow, rather than find a hairdresser who could handle my fine, thin, straight hair – rather different to the South Pacific mass of tight curls.
There had been one exception in that two years, when I asked my husband to trim the split ends. Yes, he did have to continue working upwards until achieving an almost straight line, but no split ends remained.
Then, in January this year, feeling adventurous, I dropped into a salon for a simple trim, requesting a straight cut along the ends of my now quite long hair.
