I am sat in this chic little hairdressing salon round the back of Carnaby Street, having a mild panic attack as George, my mum’s darling hairdresser, chops hunks of my hair off, all the while tutting in faux prima-donna fashion. I know for a fact George is straight as a die, but I guess this little act draws in the ladies, and I can see from the expressions on the other faces that they love it.
My mum has her nose stuck in her e-book as she sits under some weird lamps, waiting for her colour to take, oblivious to everything going on around her. I, on the other hand, have started emitting rather alarming squeaks each time another of my locks is butchered. Trust them, George and my mum said as they babbled on in some sort of pseudo-fashionista speak that I tuned out politely after the first
