The Coat Hangers: A Tale of a Bad Haircut

The sharp-eyed among you may have noticed that I've cut off my long grey hair. My profile pictures on social media still show the long version, because I haven't got round to updating them, but if you've seen me on Facebook or TikTok lately, you'll have spotted the bob.

For most of my life I've worn my hair in a bob. It's that sort of hair: thick, with a slight wave, and it has no interest in doing anything fancy. I chopped it into a bob in my early twenties, and there it stayed. Then, like all women, I got bored, and somewhere in my fifties I started growing it. It got longer, and then longer still.

Long grey hair on a woman of a certain age turns out to be quite the talking point. Some people loved it. Others had what we might politely call different opinions, my mother-in-law chief among them. "When are you going to get your hair done? When are you going to dye it?" Of course, nothing makes me dig my heels in like a remark of that sort, so the long hair stayed, and I enjoyed it for years. It was wonderfully easy. I could twist it up into a pleat to look smart, blow-dry it into something tidy, or leave it in its natural wave for the full neighbourhood witch look - the look I was going for.

Then came this very hot summer. The ends got dry, the weight of it got too much, and I decided it was time for a proper chop. And since I never do anything by halves, I wasn't going to fiddle about with shoulder length. Back to the bob it was.

Salon number one

I went to my usual hairdresser, a sweet young woman in a tiny salon round the corner, who has done my hair for a couple of years and is very good with long hair. She wasn't keen. She definitely wanted to do some halfway thing. But I told her not to worry: I'd worn a bob most of my life, and it would be fine.

When I walked out of the salon, it did look fine. They always do when they've just been done, don't they? By the next day, the sides had curled up and out into what became known in our family as the coat hangers. Two great flicks, one either side of my head, and as the hair grew they only got worse. No amount of blow-drying would persuade them under. I had to conclude that my lovely hairdresser, good as she is with long hair, can't cut a bob.

Salon number two

So I booked into a smarter high street salon in the town near where I live. I have a holiday coming up, and I didn't want to look a fright in every photo. I even made an effort. I didn't slope in wearing my dog-walking clothes. I showered, put on a nice dress, and presented myself as a smart lady in need of a smart haircut.

The trouble is, I used to be a hairdresser. If you've read my bio, you'll know I did it from leaving school until my thirties, so I understand what should happen in that chair. The alarm bells started at the basin. The shampoo was all gentle, spidery fingertips, and I thought, oh dear, I don't think this girl knows what she's doing.

Then she cut the sides in two big lumps. She chopped one section, brought the next down, chopped that, and that was it. A bob needs lots of fine sections, with the underneath layer cut ever so fractionally shorter than the hair that falls over it, so the whole thing tucks under. I watched her and knew exactly what tomorrow would bring. To be fair to her, the back sits under beautifully, and I'm grateful for that. When she'd blow-dried it and piled on the products, it looked delightful. I was very nice, left her a big tip and went on my way. What else can you do? She's young, and she might have been having a bad day.

The next morning, the coat hangers were back with a vengeance.

Salon number three: my bathroom

I gave it a couple of days to settle, washed it, and admitted defeat. The only way this was getting sorted was if I did it myself. But cutting the sides of your own hair in a mirror is nigh on impossible, so I looked out of the window at my husband, happily gardening, and called him in.

"Could you give me a hand with something?"

"Oh my God. Not cutting your hair?"

Yes, cutting my hair. We set up in our very white bathroom, which, as it turns out, is the worst possible place to scatter grey hair. It got everywhere. I combed it down and told him exactly what to do, and to his enormous credit, he squeezed his big fingers into my tiny hairdressing scissors and did as he was told, very slowly and very carefully. By this point I’d noticed it was uneven, too, shorter on one side than the other, with a long straggly bit that swung down whenever I moved my head. Halfway through, he was terrified. "I don't think I should be doing this. Just book another appointment?" I told him, first, I haven't got time. Second, I want it sorted now. And third, trust me, it can't look any worse.

Reader, it didn't look worse. My hair now sits very nicely. It's still not the best haircut in the world, but it's a great deal better than it was, and the bathroom has almost recovered. Best of all, I can pack my suitcase knowing I won't look a fright in the holiday photos.

It's a funny thing, a bad haircut. I suppose I could have gone back and complained. But a cut and blow-dry isn't cheap these days, and when you're paying high street prices, you'd hope to walk out with a decent haircut, not one that ends with your husband wielding the scissors in the bathroom.

Have you ever had a haircut disaster? Do tell me in the comments or social media. It'll make me feel better about the coat hangers.