I was living in South London and I desperately needed my hair done. To do that in London for under £100 you need to either do it yourself or you go to the little place across the road from our building called “Tingles”. I normally do my own hair but this time I chose the latter….
I wasn’t sure how the woman who introduced herself as the hairdresser achieved her qualifications, but nonetheless, she had her own business and there will always be broke mugs like me who would choose to go to her for her follicle services.
A cut and colour was requested, but I should have realised and backed out when she looked at my nearly black hair and asked if I wanted to keep the streaks! I explained that they weren’t streaks, they were just bits of hair where the last colour didn’t take as well….. so she just repeated the question. Those warning bells obviously weren’t loud enough, so into the chair I sat, bewildered, and yet still willing to let this lady near my tresses.
I’ve been colouring my hair for 21 years and I think that qualifies me to know a little bit about my own hair and indeed the process of colouring. Without anymore conversation or qualifying, the colour had been mixed and she was dragging a broken bits and pieces tray over to me (alarm bell no. 2) and started to slap the colour onto my head and massaged in as if she were shampooing it (alarm bell no. 3) I stopped her after the 2nd slap and asked if she perhaps had any Vaseline to put around my hair line as my skin dyes very easily and it doesn’t come off!! No, no, she assured me, I will wash it off when we wash the colour off. (in 40 minutes – when the dye would have surely set onto my skin) So, to prove a point, I let it set (it was only in hindsight that I realised that my making said point really only cost me my dignity – I had achieved nothing except for that smug feeling of being right.)
We got over to the sink and I was asked to sit in an old leather chair with rips in the seat (abn.4) that was so high I had to pull the chair out quite far and put my head back into the sink….. so my head was lower than my bum! Is this sounding wrong to anyone?
The “assistant” who was not the usual young apprentice, but an older lady, with not much hair of her own and who was sitting in the chair talking to an old guy who was there, her husband perhaps? Now, it was obvious to blind freddy that this woman had no hairdressing experience and yet she was going to shampoo my hair. I laid back and looked at the broken light fittings and dodgy paint job on the ceiling while she flicked shampoo into my face/eyes, I had to speak up… could you please try and keep the shampoo on my hair and could you try to get the dye off my skin please? I asked calmly. The hairdresser heard me and called out, ”Do it when you condition!” This was clearly a very professional establishment who was maybe aiding a ‘work for the Dole scheme’? It didn’t surprise me that I was their only customer. So, we got to the conditioning, which she mainly applied, again to my eye area, and then started to rub with the “special” dye on skin removing stuff… and so the scrubbing began. After five full minutes and my skin starting to burn… I ask a little more smugly, “So, is it coming off?” The little voice from behind my blood swelling head replied, “It’s coming off slowly.” The head honcho lady came racing over and snatched the flannel off her hapless assistance to scrub a little more. This is where I take my opportunity to say, “It’s a good idea to use Vaseline around the hairline. The dye still gets on the skin, but it is much easier to get it off.” She replied by stating the obvious “Well, you see, Vaseline acts as a type of barrier…” I agreed “Yes, that’s the point!” She walked away as if she hadn’t heard leaving me with her assistant who cared even less of my inked plight.
With the scrubbing over and the hair rinsed, my personal hairdressing stylist asked me if I want to have my hair blow dried… trying to keep the cost down, I inquired as to how much that would set me back. At £20 I declined her kind offer as I could happily walk across the road and do that myself. With that, she said “Ok, there you go then.” This confused me so I inquired, “Are you not going to cut it?” There were so many warning bells at that moment that I couldn’t hear myself think and that is why I still let her near my hair with scissors! “Oh, you want it cut as well?” she asked, a little surprised. “Yes, yes I do”, I stammer apprehensively all the while thinking ‘Run woman. Run!’ So she cut it in a way that I could have done, I paid my less than £100 and I walked home to blowdry my hair myself.
The stains lasted a few days and it took a few more vigorous washes on my part to get it off. The colour actually turned out ok and the cut is, well…. It was a trim – can you really go wrong there?
I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I will not be going back to Tingles. Let that be a warning to you all.
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| This is what it should have looked and did when I went to a proper hairdresser and spent many many pounds! |
