Under normal circumstances, the thought of somebody giving me their complete undivided attention while I sit in a comfy chair and do nothing but guiltily read Hello! and drink coffee, would fill me with nothing but unfettered joy. But when that person is wielding a scissors and a comb, it's a different kettle of fish entirely. That's when it becomes a trip to the hairdressers and a task to be avoided at all costs.
Hairdressers were never a large part of my life growing up. Like many small girls, I was determined to have hair so long I could sit on it, a desire I attribute partly to the fine hairdos of Jan, Marcia and Cindy from the Brady Bunch, and partly to the impression Rapunzel made on me at an early age. I reasoned that if I was going to get trapped somewhere very high (the fact that we lived in a bungalow seems to have escaped me), it would be a good idea to ensure my hair was up to the challenge.
As I got older it became increasingly untrendy to have long straight hair, and I had more than a few hair crises as, all around me, friends were covering their heads with henna, spikes, flick fringes and perms. My long hair survived only because I'm so indecisive - I would still be deliberating the pros and cons of a bleach job when a much cooler friend would inform me that only losers would consider anything other than a bubble perm.
As I'm not a great believer in half measures, I went predictably over the top when it all came off at the age of 19. Two and a half feet of hair became a boyish inch and a half after a debate involving a couple of bottles of wine, a friend who had a bit of reputation with a scissors and the issue of whether I'd look like a young Hepburn without my long locks. The result was more Tenko than Hepburn, but I soon became rather fond of my rufty-tufty look. Unfortunately, my boyfriend of the time didn't recognise me and walked straight past me but I reasoned that the relationship was on the rocks anyway.
For years after that, I got my hair cut by any poor soul who made the mistake of saying they were good with their hands. So going to an actual hairdresser, one with swivelly seats and camp boys to wash your hair and magazines is a relatively new experience for me, and one that I find oddly intimidating. No matter how confidently and stridently I march into a hairdresser's salon, I usually manage to leave with a haircut that I hate, scattering thanks and tips around me like Smarties.
Last Saturday's adventure was no exception. I was expecting a bit of a lecture as I calculated that I had last got a haircut nearly a year ago, but I reckoned that I could safely reduce this to "a few months ago" and trot out the line about growing it. Big mistake. I wasn't two seconds in the chair when my tormentor, who sported a fine spiky black number herself, started in on the "When did you last get your hair cut?" inquisition.
I then had to sit through a rather illuminating lesson on the growth pattern of hair, on why I had done completely the wrong thing if I wanted long hair and just how little she could do for me at this stage of the game. To be honest I didn't mind this in the slightest as sitting there looking terribly cast down and sorrowful about my own high-handed behaviour was kind of cleansing - confessional even.
I wasn't quite so sure how I felt when she moved onto the colour of my hair, taking large slices off the ends as she spoke. In essence, her theory was that nobody looked good with hair that was naturally my colour - mousy brown according to her - and that really I would be doing everybody a favour if I got a few highlights. As I have always been under the naive impression that I had blonde hair, this came as something of a surprise.
Still, I was quite glad that I hadn't tried to claim blonde hair when she moved onto the topic of girls with long blonde hair and how she found them generic, silly and a touch pathetic. By the time I left, with a particularly well-cut variation on long blonde hair, I was really having a bit of an identity crisis.
I wonder why hairdressers get away with this kind of behaviour. I know I'm not the only one who finds the whole experience rather terrifying, but who tends to agree with everything their hairdressers says and to tip them well. This is partly because your look for the next two months is in their hands for the duration you sit in their chair and smiling like a loon seems like the most diplomatic way out of a potentially fatal position.
But I think it goes deeper than this. A haircut is an expert service for which we are paying, yet with most services we expect to be courted for our custom, flattered, charmed, persuaded. Yet hairdressers seem to bring out the humble gene in us all, the one that compels us to hand over money without question while being made to feel guilty. Dentists often have the same effect, as do accountants, particularly those wielding overdue tax return forms, beauticians and Weight Watchers professionals.
Yet other service providers such as solicitors, plumbers, television repair people and double-glazing consultants just don't inspire the same humility when parting us from our cash. I think it's because they all possess expert knowledge of some kind but the area of expertise of the hairdressers and dentists of this world is not abstract facts but us.
When I sat in that chair on Saturday, I was a complete stranger yet she was able to hypnotise me with facts about the hair with which I had lived all my life. She didn't know who I was, yet she had the confidence to make assessments about me - as a display of dominance it would have blown the other critters out of the jungle.
Which is why I had a bit of a revolution in thinking last Saturday when I realised that my attitude to hairdressers had been all wrong. I had been trying to assert my power in the face of superior knowledge, a strategy that any ergonomics consultant will tell you is a waste of time. Instead, I should realise that I am paying somebody good money so that I can sit back and revel in my own fecklessness. From now on, I'm going to cling like a limpet to my status as a hair amateur and behave recklessly with hair products, act childishly on the issue of hair care, use elastic bands instead of soft fabric covered hair ties, and let a professional take care of the resulting chaos.
Louise East can be contacted at wingit@irish-times.ie