Super stylist

Change is hard and one of the toughest things to find in a new city is a hairdresser who cuts your hair, just how you like it. Over the past year, I've shopped around, trying uber cool salons in Surry Hills, the Eastern Suburbs as well as the Northern Beaches. I've come to the conclusion that British hairdressers here are (mostly) grumpier and I really wish that the Australian beauty industry as a whole could lay off on the hard product sell which is bit annoying and really, if I want a new product, I'll ask for it.

Finally I've found her... the perfect hairdresser. Her name is Rachel and she's at Muse in Crown Street. Rachel cuts my hair like she's creating a piece of sculpture. She gathered very quickly that I'm basically lazy and have rarely handled a hairdryer and she does this amazing grazing thing which makes my hair sit perfectly, despite all its weird kinks and too much sunshine. I've now been a few times and yet again, I've come out all 'flicky' and feeling ten year's younger. Now to do something about the face!

Shawn

'I'm a simple girl, easy going' I said once to M when we first got (back) together. He repeats this to me now with a snigger in his voice and I realise that whilst he's referring to a different kind of maintenance, the fact is that I do need regular upkeep. In London, a six week trim with Michael and highlights (you mean that it wasn't natural?!) with Hong, and regular visits to the gorgeous Kristy, kept me mowed and sanded, despite my Birkenstock and lack of slap. Six months down the line, the breakdown in my maintenance programme is beginning to show around the edges.

Tokyo has more hairdressers than any place on earth. I don't know if this is a fact but I cannot imagine anywhere having more - they are there on every corner, on every floor, at any time of day or night. Tokyo-ites flick gleaming locks and I am the only one I know who doesn't blow dry or who scrunches her hair up in a knot permanently. Kate Moss may sport the dirty blonde lock-chick roots, but she ain't here and I'm single handedly doing it for her. I have no excuse other than fear. Fear of bleach in the hands of a raven haired nation. And the fear is strong and has rendered me to a look that M described as 'Camilla Parker Bowles'.

There is something about being a foreigner that makes you feel immune, like your not part of society and therefore doesn't really matter what you look like. Rightly or wrongly, despite being in the most polished nation on earth, my standards had fallen and I was looking a right old state!

Last weekend I met Mo, a friend of M's from Sydney and she gave me the courage, and the phone number, to book an appointment at Gold. This morning I met Vladimir who, having just got back from a night long karaoke session, sliced through my tresses with gay abandon (in more ways than one). Surprisingly, I didn't wince when large chunks of hair fell about my feet, repairing the damage of a summer of swimming and sunshine. The installing of layers has given me a new bounce. I left the salon looking in shop windows at a girl wearing boots and jeans and for once, I felt I looked like I fitted. I have bouncy, flicky, short hair like a Japanese girl.