Robyn’s Nest

I am so so so so cross with myself. Not for playing volleyball when the physio told me not to (only one set by the way, before the girls ganged up on me and banned me from the court “for my own good”) but for falling off a pavement and damaging my dodgy ankle further.

Okay, so a few shots of toffee vodka may have contributed to this wobble but still, if I could turn back time I would. I feel thoroughly frustrated and angry and grumpy and am trying really hard not to swear on this blog. Oh fuck it, I just did. I am a bloody idiot!

I did have a good weekend but watching volleyball instead of playing isn’t half as much fun and my 10 minutes on court was hardly worthy of the silver medal placed around my neck on Sunday. Well done girls! But I did leave my mark elsewhere - there’s a crash mat at Aber University with a me-shaped indent on it.

Not only was I relagated to the sidelines at the weekend I was also the nominated “beer bitch” as I hadn’t been on the Aber volleyball tour before. A “tour virgin” is the terminology I believe. Great. Evenings spent fetching other people’s beers. And this is a particularly tricky task when there are 15 to 20 people in a round and they all want cocktails with names like Sweaty Box, Cheeky Vimto, Princess Leah and Rubbish Lay. And they’re happy to point out when their glasses are empty too. Gits. Gotta love ‘em.

So yesterday, after a culmination of lack of sleep, eating crap food, drinking too much and falling off a pavement, I was in a foul mood, the only plus being that I’d booked a day off work so I couldn’t inflict this misery on my work colleagues.

My anger increased when my hairdresser - who would clearly rather have been somewhere else (a Weightwatchers class I should suggest) - failed to dry my hair properly after colouring it and, I realised when I got home, that she’d missed a bit at the front. A mini tantrum followed, in the privacy of my own bedroom. Aren’t you supposed to leave a salon feeling super glam, not like a semi-drowned rat with a mousey brown patch at the front of your head?

Anyway, it was date number five (with the same guy I hasten to add) last night and the poor old sole had to suffer my misery. I nearly scared him off, but not quite. He turned up with chocolate and a funny DVD and managed to make me laugh, ending my day of shiteness on a high.

Mr physio made me laugh today too with his comedy drawings of me and the exercises I’m supposed to do. Falling off a pavement did me no good what so ever and simply jumping or hopping on my bad ankle hurts. Oh bollocks!

Note to self: Avoid pavements with high kerbs, and best steer clear of cobbled streets too.

Going to the hairdresser, for me,  is like going and having a coffee with a mate - the only difference being they’re wielding a pair of scissors or a brush loaded with bleach.

So, when I moved to Milton Keynes from Leicester a couple of months ago I had to say goodbye to my hairdresser and find a new one. I chose a well known salon, stupidly thinking that the more money I handed over, the better experience I’d get. Not so.

The woman colourist (is that what you call the people who dye your hair?) and the hairdresser were both distinctly lacking in charisma and instead of idle chit-chat - not even a mention of where I’d be going on holiday this year! - I got resounding silence from the pair of them.

Yes, it’s nice to know they’re concentrating on their work but I enjoy the experience of going to the hairdresser, of forging a relationship with the salon and making friendly conversation with the people hovering around your head.

When I left I didn’t feel or even look like i’d “just stepped out of a salon” but instead felt ignored and disappointed that £90 - yes, that’s right folks, 90 flamin’ squid! - had got me the kind of cut and blow dry my 13-year-old sister would have given me and a colour I hadn’t asked for.

Yes, I should have spoken up before leaving the salon but it’s oh so hard to tell someone to their face that they’ve done a duff job. Especially when they’re saying how lovely you look - they would wouldn’t they!

So, it’s back to the drawing board for me. Still need to find a hairdresser who can be my mate, who will listen to what I say. People have said my hair looks nice, they’re probably being polite, but it’s not what I asked for and that makes me cross. I’m definitely not scissor happy!

Part of the experience of getting your hair snipped is the relationship you forge with the salon. Let’s face it, if you like these people and the service they provide you’ll go back.