Curl Up and Dry

Mat is beaming. Not just smiling — beaming like a man moments away from committing a crime. The kind of grin that suggests something is brewing internally, something sinister and pressurised, like he’s swallowed a secret whole and it’s now stretching the walls, clawing to get out. And then — He farts it out. A weaponised, full-bodied blast of something vulgar directly into my personal space. “Pack your suitcase, we’re going to London.” I stare at him. London. Why is it always bloody London? That heaving, polluted, soul-rendering city — where people don’t walk so much as power-march through their own burnout, eyes glazed over, clutching overpriced coffees and a quiet sense of doom. “Oh.” Because what else is there to say when your fate has been sealed by someone else’s digestive system? Consent has taken a step back and decided not to get involved. My role here is simply to absorb the impact. At first, I think — romantic getaway. A spontaneous escape. A rekindling. A chance to reconnect. A montage, even. Soft lighting. A questionable soundtrack. But then he drops the second bombshell. “I’ll be working,” he says, casually. Of course you will. “Oh great,” I mutter. “So I’ll just… haunt the pavements alone in a city I actively avoid?” “Well… not quite,” he says, with that same deeply untrustworthy smile. “You’ll be looking after Maisy.” Oh. Bloody. Marvellous. My mother-in-law’s Cocker Spaniel. A creature with a whip-crack tail and the hygiene standards of a swamp. She smells… layered. Damp towels, old slippers, and something faintly fish-based that refuses to be identified. “She’s very well trained,” my mother-in-law insists. Which is fascinating, because within minutes Maisy has: Jumped onto the table. Licked the inside of my mouth mid-sentence. Stolen a sock I wasn’t even aware I was wearing. “What am I supposed to do with a dog in London?” I ask. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Mat says, looping her lead into my hand like he’s transferring liability. Maisy looks up at me. Big brown eyes. No remorse. No shits given. “Well,” I sigh, “it’s you and me then.” The car journey is a descent into madness. Mat is engaged in a one-sided war with every vehicle on the road. “INDICATE, YOU TOSSER!” he screams at a van that cannot hear him — and, frankly, wouldn’t give a single, fleeting shit if it could. Maisy is on my lap, panting directly into my face, licking me with such persistence it feels less like affection and more like an attempt to erase me. London grows closer. I consider opening the door and rolling into a hedge. We arrive. Mat vanishes almost instantly. “I’ve got a meeting,” he says, already halfway gone, like a man outrunning accountability. “I’ll see you… when I see you then,” I reply, deflated. He presses money into my hand. “Go get your hair done. Treat yourself.” “With a dog?” “It’s London, Mandy… anything goes.” And annoyingly… That idea takes root in the worst possible way. A haircut. A refresh. A new me. Because the truth is — I can’t remember the last time I trusted a professional with my hair. I usually do it myself, in moments of emotional instability, armed with blunt scissors and tainted ambition. So off we go. Me and Maisy. Two reluctant companions on a misguided quest for reinvention. Finding a dog-friendly salon is less “quirky London adventure” and more “extended public rejection with mounting shame.” We are turned away. Repeatedly. Politely. Firmly. Once by a woman who simply locks the door while maintaining unbroken, judgmental eye contact. But then — Like fate. Or punishment. I find one. Curl Up and Dye. I pause. “Well, that's… comforting.” A name that suggests someone, somewhere, didn’t make it out the back. Still — I push the door open. Because really — how much worse could this day realistically get? “HELLO, DARLING.” Two men appear. “Craig!” they both say, in perfect unison. Ah. Of course. Big Craig and Little Craig. Big Craig is… expansive. A presence. A man who enters a room in instalments. Little Craig is compact, tightly wound, like he’s been vacuum-sealed for efficiency and dramatics. Both have enormous ginger beards. Both radiate a kind of theatrical, chaotic warmth that makes me feel immediately safe… and deeply unsafe at the same time. Both are unapologetically, gloriously camp. “Oh, she’s tired, Craig,” Little Craig whispers loudly, circling me like a vulture with taste. “She’s been through something,” Big Craig agrees, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “I’ve just come from the M5,” I say. They gasp. “Say no more.” I am seated, gowned, swivelled towards a mirror that already feels personally disappointed in me. Maisy is placed in the corner like an unwilling witness. “So my darling… what are we thinking?” “I was thinking maybe just a tidy—” “Red,” he interrupts, sharply. I blink. “I’m seeing red. Passion. Fire. Rebirth.” “I was thinking more—subtle?” “No.” Right. What follows is not a haircut. It’s a full-scale medical intervention. Tools appear. Not normal tools — no. Metallic things. Heated things. Things with wires. Things that hum like they’re preparing for something irreversible. At one point, he produces something that looks suspiciously like it belongs in a minor surgical ward — something sharp, something jagged… something with more teeth than feels strictly necessary. “What’s that?” I ask. “Don’t worry about it.” “I am worried about it.” “Trust the process.” There is no process. There is only Craig and his vision. Little Craig assists like an overqualified theatre nurse on his third espresso. “Foils!” he announces, slapping them into Big Craig’s hand with unnecessary intensity. “Timer!” “Conditioner!” “Emotional support!” “I need that one,” I mutter. Maisy watches. Horrified. At one point, she physically turns away. Paws over her face. Even she can’t bear witness to what’s unfolding. Time dissolves. My head is wrapped, clipped, steamed, prodded. I smell chemicals. Regret. Transformation against my will. I consider escape. But I am tethered — physically and emotionally — to this chair. To Craig. To the version of me he has already decided exists. Finally — The chair spins. The mirror returns. And I see her. Me. But… wrong. Violently red hair. Not elegant — aggressive, confrontational red. The kind of red that suggests I might shout at strangers or start fires recreationally. A blunt fringe — hovering inches above my eyebrows. “Baby bangs,” he says proudly. And the shape… Dear God. The shape is a mullet. Curly. Textured. Unapologetically present. “Oh my God,” Big Craig gasps. “You look completely transformed.” I stare. I look like I’ve been electrocuted mid-identity crisis. I want to cry. Or sue. Or both. “I love it,” I hear myself say. Who said that? Was that… me? “That’ll be £700, love.” Seven hundred pounds. For this. This… flaming, retina-offending monstrosity. I stare at the money Mat gave me. A drop in a very expensive ocean. I tap my card. Because what else can I do? Argue? With Craig? In his operating theatre of dreams and delusion? No. Beep. Flatline. Outside, London feels louder. Sharper. Hostile. Every reflective surface becomes an enemy. I catch glimpses of myself and recoil slightly each time, like I’ve just remembered something deeply embarrassing from childhood. I want to disappear. Slip quietly down a grate, become one with the sewage, drift away in anonymous disgrace. And then I see him — Mat. Sandwich in hand, lost in waver ham. He nearly walks right past me. “Mat…” I call. He turns, freezes. “… Mandy.” “What the—” “Don’t even get me started—” “You look incredible.” I pause. “… you what?” “So young. So vibrant. There’s a glow.” A glow. “Mat,” I say carefully. “I have a mullet. A bright ginger mullet.” He shrugs. Takes another bite. “I don’t see what you see.” And that… lands. Uncomfortably. Because he’s right. Not about the hair — the hair is a full-blown situation. But about the rest. I think about the day. How easily I folded. How quickly I handed over control. To Mat. To London. To Craig and his surgical vision. Nodding. Agreeing. “Sounds good.” “Go on then.” And then standing there, shocked by the result… As if I hadn’t been present the entire time. I glance back at the shop. Curl Up and Dye. I nod. That feels about right. Because maybe the problem isn’t just the hair. Maybe it’s how easily I let myself be styled into someone I don’t recognise… And then stand there, horrified, as if I wasn’t the one who sat in the chair.