‘Twas with a heavy heart that I headed to the hairdressers this morning, forgoing the glorious sunshine and the prospect of a Sefton Park picnic with la famille in favour of a entire day in a salon. However, there was nothing I could do about it – my hairdresser (the crafty devil) knew there was no backing out, as I’d had my colour done for free as consolation. DAMN.
I arrived late (obviously) and was greeted with a scene of complete and utter chaos. Hair models galore, stylists sweating already and clothes strewn on every available surface. My hairdresser had wanted to do my hair curly so had asked me to not wash it in the morning. I did try to tell him that it would be a holy show if I followed his instruction but he was insistent. However, as anyone who’s had the misfortune to see me first thing in the morning will confirm, my hair when I wake up looks like I’ve stuck my finger in a plug socket. Sure enough, he took one look at me and said “…hmmm, I think we will wash it after all.” I KNEW IT.
After having my hair washed and dried, I spent the next couple of hours people-watching from the salon’s first floor vantage point on Whitechapel. I saw a lot of people in dungarees, and they only suited about 0.7% of these people. I also took a peek at my fellow models. They were all very skinny and very cool, and none of them had arrived with greasy hair and their outfit for later in a sloth bag. Whoops.
Meanwhile, one of the staff had paid a visit to Marks and Spencer and had returned with armfuls of food. Naturally, I was thrilled. Tragically, the rest of the models seemed to be taking things VERY seriously to the point where they were eating like real models too i.e not very much at all. Undeterred, I carried on like the carb-loving trooper I am. One girl tried to dig into the cocktail sausages but I only allowed her to have a couple. Doesn’t she know who I am?!
My hair was eventually styled and we were left to while away the hours until showtime. I spent these hours by eating A LOT, to the point where I’d ingested so many carbs I was in a kind of haze and was looking around eight months pregnant with a cracking food baby. By the time it came to prising myself into my bodycon dress I was looking positively elephantine and was vaguely traumatised when we left the salon to go to the hotel where the show was to take place (I practically had to be rolled out of the place, everyone else lightly skipped.)
What my hair was like. Note inability to take a serious selfie.
The actual show was complete and utter comedy gold. I genuinely wish someone had videoed it. We had to walk, one by one, down a room full of people and then stop and pose in front of the judges (the salon managers.) EXCRUCIATING, I KNOW. We also had to wear sunglasses in an already dingy bar, so obviously I was terrified that I was going to fall flat on my face. I didn’t, but was so busy concentrating on not walking too fast yet not too slow that I clearly looked like a total fool anyway. I was doing my best ANTM style smizing too but then realised the effect of this was lost somewhat due to the fact that you couldn’t actually see my eyes.
Seven and a half hours (I kid you not) after arriving at the salon I was free to go. I have to say, I do not know how real models do it. It must be the most boring existence of all time. Granted, they get paid handsomely for it, which must soften the blow, but I could not do any job that a.) was this dull and b.) meant I had to go easy on the savoury snacks.
That said, I got my colour done for free, and my next cut will be as well. AND, I am temporarily no longer grey of bonce. RESULT!