Hello, my name is Harriet and, until last week, I had never spent more than £25 on a haircut. I'm a thirty-something working mother, living in London, who is more than happy to part with my cash in Whistles, good restaurants and the occasional spa. But when it comes to tending to my tresses, I come over all mean (plus I have always found smart hairdressers just the teeniest bit overwhelming).
But enough is enough. Since having my son a year ago, something strange has happened to my locks. My hair has gone all frizzy at the front and sticks out everywhere, giving me a Krusty the Clown look; it has also changed colour (for the worse) and is generally just a little bit wayward. I need help. Fast.
Which is why, on a wet Monday morning, I find myself walking into the welcoming warmth and brightness of the John Frieda flagship salon in Mayfair. Dripping and cold, I am greeted by a lady with a magnificent coiffure, who kindly takes my coat and umbrella (which she then dries for me!) before handing me my gown. Eyeing up the huge rack of magazines, I settle down with a pile of glossies and await my colourist.
I have never dyed my hair (well I did once, jet black, for a goth party at uni) so am unsure of what to say once the colourist Carmel has shown me downstairs. But she listens patiently as I garble on, before recommending I try ice-blonde highlights, which will suit my colouring and, more importantly, be subtle and not too WAG-like. So far, so good.
Along comes my stylist Giles (for the record, he too is lovely, and must be the Russell Brand of hairdressing with his glorious mane of hair), who also listens intently as I try to explain what I'm after. I am dead set on having a fringe. Giles is far too polite to actually say anything but, the slight pause when I tell him, speaks volumes. Instead he gently suggests an alternative and, in the hands of such experts, who am I to refuse?
Carmel and I chat away (she's just been in New York for work) as she expertly and meticulously pastes on the dye and folds the strands of my hair into tinfoil until eventually I resemble the tin can man. I sit back for half an hour to let the colour settle.
The salon is on two floors, all cool grey marble, honey-coloured wood and black leather chairs. It's laid-back, friendly and not intimidating in the slightest, with young helpers all dressed in white scurrying around catering to the clients' every whim.
Behind me a man is grooming a selection of wigs, with the utmost care and delicacy as if they were prized poodles. Other clients range from grand elderly Chanel-clad ladies to sleek young women, groomed to within an inch of their life, tapping away on their BlackBerries as stylists beaver away making them even more beautiful than before.
Having had the dye washed out, Giles sets to work. Previous haircuts have generally lasted 15 minutes, but Giles really takes his time explaining what he's doing. At every stage he stands back and scrutinises his progress and as locks of hair start piling up on the floor around me, I become more and more excited. I feel utterly confident in Giles's hands, like it really does matter to him how I'm going to look at the end. He even takes the time to demonstrate how I should be blow-drying my hair at home.
After an hour or so and with a final flourish of his hairbrush, Giles is finished and I am transformed. Gone is the slightly mad Krusty look. The colour is just perfect (no chance of me being mistaken as Abbey Clancy or Alex Curran) and my hair feels lighter, more manageable and the soft layers frame my face just as Giles said they would. I love it. For me, the acid test when I've come out the hairdressers is whether, once washed at home, the new do can last (normally it doesn't). Well, dear reader, it has.
So was my trip to John Frieda worth it? Absolutely. Every penny. I might even pass for a yummy Mummy.
John Frieda Salon, 4 Aldford Street, London W1 (+44 (0)20 7491 0840; johnfrieda.com). Starting price for colour is £110 for half head highlights and starting price for a cut & blowdry is £50.
