There was a time when I went years without visiting a hairdresser. I know. But I found sitting bang in front of a starkly lit mirror faintly terrifying, and did my best to avoid it. Nobody enjoys confronting cavernous pores or realising that, while you think you are Galadriel, up close the vibe is more Gollum. There is also no silence I can leave unfilled; the stress of coming up with something remotely witty or interesting to say left me in danger of losing hair, rather than having it improved.
I wish I could be one of those people who nails going to the hairdresser: saying nothing for four hours; flicking through Vogue, drooling over unaffordable clothes; relaxing into a head massage. Incidentally, who are the people who say no to the head massage? Would they refuse an oxygen mask on a plane?