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Today the hairdresser was to come at 9 to cut my hair and blow dry it. I have a photoshoot for a casting company on Sunday and my hair needs to look sleek. I should have known. He eventually arrived at 10.30. A few texts on the way, had to mend his bicycle chain. Arrived with heavy alcohol breath and in a rush to get to work. He used my straighteners on my wet hair and despite my protestations, told me it would be find to leave it damp. As it dried, it stared to grow – laterally. Big hair is not sleek for a photoshoot hair. I was so so angry. Shaking with rage I had to stomp around before I could go and see him. As I waited outside the salon sitting on a bench, a stranger looked at me and said “half way through?” and pointed at my hair. “the finished product” I said. “Oh dear! I could always slather it in Vaseline for you if that would help.” I’d call him if things got that desperate! The hairslayer came out … He tried to blame my hair, lack of hairdryer, anything except himself! I told him that what was most disappointing was that he came to me as a friend and he did this – and pointed my fingers at the frizz on my head. He gave me my money back and I found a salon who had a slot and for £25 plus tip I was restored.

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