It’s not every hair salon that sees you battle near-death addiction

It’s my first trip to a hair salon since coronavirus hit. I’m checking in at the reception desk with its plastic screen and staff who are wearing face visors. Good God. Who would have thought this sight possible six months ago when I last came in for a quick trim?

The salon is a bit of a celebrity haunt in Fitzrovia, near London’s West End – full of Conde Nast fashion editors and models. Why am I here then, you might ask? I get a discount as my friend works here. But also, this salon holds a very nostalgic place in my heart.

I used to come here as a 13-year-old with my mum before she died of cancer. The hair salon sent flowers to her funeral – that’s how close they were. In the depths of my addiction, I would slide off my chair mid-haircut. It’s not every hair salon that has seen you battle through near-death into recovery.

My dealer even dropped me off once for a facial downstairs. I was the type of addict who was vegetarian and looked after my skin even in the darkest hours – until even that went out of the window.

I recall being in a police cell a few years later after unwittingly being a getaway driver for a burglar. Somebody had written on the wall, “Jail, no bail. No Hope, smoke dope”. Then a trip to the hair salon seemed like a dream while I slept on a thin blue plastic mattress.

Luckily I never got banged up – here or abroad – but it was always a “yet” as it is referred to in NA. That’s until I found recovery 21 years ago. Years later, Alex used to come with me for a haircut too before he died. The whole hair salon gasped at his good looks and winked at me after years of hearing me going on about him.

Now I arrive alone in my mask. To be honest, my hair has grown out into a really nice natural balayage with sun-kissed ends – but as I only come here so infrequently, I decide it’s now or never in case of a next lockdown.

Usually a trip to the hairdressers involves plenty of conversation between me and the colourist, Jazzy. I’ve known her 20 years. As I wait for her, I look in the mirror: what would my mum and Alex make of my life now? Would they recognise me? I look like a frumpy mum rather than a thin-rail wildchild? “Stop it. Stop it,” I say to myself. I’m trying to stop the negative chat in my head before I get lost in it.

Hairdressers have been urged to cut back on conversation during post-lockdown appointments. I wonder if Jazzy and I will talk 19-to-the-dozen as usual? She arrives, wearing a head visor: “I won’t hug you or we will get sacked,” she says. Soon she is showing me a WhatsApp video of a rave in a forest with hundreds of people during lockdown, not a mask in sight. I feel a bit edgy – was she there? When was it?

“Don’t worry I didn’t go,” she says reassuringly. She’s also been visiting her clients at home all through lockdown. “Of course, don’t you think they need their hair done?”

Silly me, of course they do! “Hey babe,” she finally says. “I’ve never been one for conspiracy theories but so you actually know of anybody who has died of it?” She tells me that she’s only heard of a couple of coronavirus fatalities in her own circle and from stories her clients have told her. “Don’t you think that’s weird?”

I’m holding my breath as she is quite close to me as she works on my fringe. Was this trip to the hair salon really a good idea? Is she right? Am I over the top when it comes to all the new normal? I pick up a copy of a glossy magazine suddenly feeling exhausted. I can’t wait to get out into the fresh air.

Then I check my phone for the latest coronavirus figures: infection rates are more than 800 a day. “It’s all about control babe,” she says. I give her a tip before I leave: a germy banknote. I go and wash my hands in the bathroom before walking miles home, and washing my hands again. I throw the mask into the washing machine and give the kids a big hug.

Is going to the hairdressers worth the aggro? The trouble is I can’t close the door on a place with so many memories. It would be the end of an era. I always end up back there. I’m not ready to throw the towel in.