Hairdresser in Costa Del Silencio

Every so often you come across someone and think , ‘Where the hell have you been all my life?’ Maybe that person turns out to be your soul mate or becomes a very dear friend. In my case, it’s Andy, hairdressing magician of The Village in Chapparal, Costa Del Silencio.

As I was the poster child for mousy hair at school, it’s not surprising that two kids and thirty years have done nothing at all to improve its texture or manageability. I’ve always known that I have challenging hair but I’ve never been impressed with those hairdressers that collapse in hysterics when I present a picture of Halle Berry and say, ‘I want to look like THAT!’

Not Andy. Okay, so Halle Berry may be a bit of a stretch but over the last few months he has rescued my hair from the absolute depths of bad haircut hell and resurrected it to the point where I have finally been brave enough to go for something a bit more exciting. After much uhmming and ahhing, I’ve gone for a perm. No, not a Kevin Keegan type 70’s nightmare. A body perm. According to Andy, it makes me look glam. Personally I suspect that the only thing that is likely to do that is dark lights and a bottle of vodka but a bit of harmless flattery never hurt a soul.

That was last Thursday and I left the salon feeling great. My flat and boring hair had bounce and shine and believe it or not, I did feel glam.

At least for a little while.

By the time I’d finished messing about with my exciting and dare I say …sexy …new style I looked more barmy than bombshell.

I struggled along for a few days convinced that my perm had fallen out. As if I’d dropped it on the way to the shops or something. I called Andy and wailed down the phone at him. Instead of telling me to get a grip and a bit more practice with my velcro rollers, he set me up with an appointment for a wash and blow dry and told me to come prepared.

When I turned up, he washed my hair, sat me in front of the mirror and told me to get on with it. I had to do my hair the way I was doing it at home. He stood back and watched me torture and twist my hair onto the rollers with thinly disguised horror before showing me what I should be doing and making me do that instead. At one point he was waffling on about what I could do with a pair of tongs before visualising the damage I’d be likely to inflict on myself or innocent bystanders and retracting that suggestion.

In the end, I left the salon with my beautiful bouncy barnet back and a new spring in my step. Andy had made me, make me, look good and feel great. Now that’s what I call a hairdresser!