And what about the kids?
THE last time I cut anyone’s hair was five years ago. My eldest son, Freddy, was just three and I felt his sweet, thin, flyaway fringe was out of control.
So, armed with the bacon scissors and a tea towel, I snipped and tidied until, well, after quite a bit of adjusting, he ended up with a Herman Munster fringe and I was banned from haircutting for ever.
Until now. Because desperate times call for desperate measures. Months from their last haircut, my boys, now eight and six, have great dark shaggy topknots.
So here I am again, armed and dangerous. This time, however, I am taking no chances. I have persuaded my brilliant hairdresser, Hugo Mansfield, to talk me through every snip by video link.
‘I would never, ever suggest anyone cut their own hair,’ he says, deeply alarmed. ‘But these are unique times.’
My sons have mixed feelings. Freddy, the optimist, says: ‘At least if it’s as bad as last time, Mummy, it won’t matter, because no one can see me.’
Sandy, six, is less sure. ‘It’ll be rubbish. You know it will be. Because you aren’t a hairdresser, are you?’
True. I get Hugo on my phone and give him a video tour of Freddy’s mop. ‘Ooh, nice hair. Lots of weight in the top — you’ll need to lighten that up,’ he says. ‘Dampen it down, comb it and focus on isolating the top section. Imagine a horseshoe on top of the head with the curve running through the back of the crown.’
Er, OK. Using one of my hair clips, I secure the top chunk of Freddy’s not very clean hair.
‘Ooww!’ he yelps.
H
UgO, 39, who has won endless prizes, now cuts hair in his private salon in Kensington, West London, three days a week and on the other two he teaches. But never by video link to a total amateur.
It turns out that hair scissors are not only more expensive than normal scissors but they’re made differently, weighted differently and used differently. The only bit of the cutter’s hand that moves is the thumb — and they are so incredibly sharp they must be kept closed when not in use.
We start with the sides. ‘In small diagonal segments, like an orange,’ says Hugo. ‘Only take a centimetre. Use that as your guideline. No more. Clear sections, Jane. Clean sections. You’re grabbing loads of hair.
‘Look for your guidelines,’ he says firmly. ‘And don’t forget. A guideline is like love — if you can’t see it, don’t pursue it.’
I remember why I’ve been going to Hugo for a haircut for 15 years. Not only does he have good chat but he’s a perfectionist. He continually urges caution. ‘Whatever you’re doing should only be preservation, not restoration. You’re trying to maintain, not cut a new style,’ he says.
As I press on with my cut, he talks me through: texturising, lifting up the hair with the comb and snipping into the end to soften the line; how to feather around the ears; and the importance of symmetry.
I take a chunk out of my forefinger with the scissors, swear a lot and bleed all over the towel. In all, I cut my fingers three times, twice badly enough to need plasters, nearly take a chunk out of Freddy’s ear and, I’m told, several times, am not very gentle. But somehow, despite all that, I do a pretty good job on Freddy’s hair.
‘It’s good. Surprisingly good,’ says Hugo.
Sadly, my talent must be fleeting. For Sandy’s hair does not go as well. While he is just six, he is particular about his hair. When he goes to the barber, he sits very still, concentrating, as he puts it ‘to make sure I get a good cut’. Not this time.
I can’t comb through the knots without him screaming, so I chop them out instead. The sides donww’t blend. The top doesn’t look quite right. And as blood leaks out from beneath my plaster and my mouth fills up with his hair, he looks pale and tense.
By halfway through, he’s weeping so uncontrollably, I abandon texturising, try not to notice the clump sticking out beneath his right ear and run upstairs to my computer to order him a gigantic Ninjago Lego set on Amazon Prime.
I won’t be cutting my kids’ hair again, ever — they made me promise on our guinea pigs’ lives. It’s just not worth the recriminations, tears and bloody fingers.
My advice, while we wait for the end of lockdown, is to let your hairdresser know you care — even it if it’s just a text to assure them that, the minute we’re all allowed out again, you’ll rush back to their salon looking like a member of the Hair Bear Bunch.