In 1987, in a medium sized town in the Irish Midlands, there was a hair salon. ‘Downtown Hairstyles’ was tucked beneath a sweet shop and an estate agents, just off the main street. Down there of a Saturday you might find a 9 year old girl fastidiously folding towels, sweeping up hair, or occasionally—if a client was indulgent—standing on a chair to give the soon to be regretful volunteer a thorough soaking, by means of an enthusiastic shampoo and rinse.

Descending to the basement salon, you were met in advance by the warm smell of hairspray, perm lotion and shampoos. The cacophony of dryers masked bubbles of gossip, women of all ages, loosened and unfettered from their usual moorings.

My mother’s salon was always busy. I idolised the confident, glamorous staff with their ginormous perms, and asymmetric fringes, all rocking edgy fashions for the time. This tribe of new-wave priestesses were universally kind and tolerant. I was undoubtedly a royal pain in the backside, but they never let me know it. I remember the thrill of ‘backstage access’ to the staff room: A dark and distinctly unglamourous space thick with cigarette smoke, mugs of tea, and gossip.

Nine-year-old me had all the glamour of a sausage roll, with a shape to match. I experimented with skinny belts to create the illusion of a waist, but it was rather like tying an elastic band around a marshmallow. When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always replied “a hairdresser, like my mum”, not because I had any talent in this area, but because I assumed this would guarantee my ultimate transformation into one of these gorgeous, powerful, incandescent women. I might even discover what it would be like to be kissed, something I was dubious anyone would ever want to do with me, of all people.

I noticed, too, as my hair-washing skills gradually improved, how important it was to pay attention. How to put your focus on the task at hand. I noticed that when having their hair washed, most people close their eyes. Reading small signals via your hands and eyes, you can sense their whole body relax. Their breathing slows and deepens. The tension washes away with the gentle flow of warm water as you cast a slow and careful spell, predictable, familiar and timeworn.

Having your hair washed properly is incredibly intimate. It’s a funny social contract. The act takes place entirely in public, often with a complete stranger and money usually changes hands. And yet, there’s no shame. In Ireland—a country that (still) attaches shame to almost every intimate encounter possible, sexual, medical, physical and emotional—this is something to carefully consider. Perhaps this is why we find it so easy to confess everything to our hairdresser. There is a sense of intimacy at play, the feeling that we are seen, that we are touched, that we are cared for.

In case you didn’t know: Most hairdressers are natural empaths. They genuinely like people. They actually like all of us, despite our inadequacies, our insufficiencies, and our many flaws. They can read us like a book, and they just want us to be happy. They will go above and beyond to put the needs of others above their own. (Hello mum, I see you too you know:)

Being a hairdresser is not easy work—standing on your feet all day, hands immersed in dirty scalps, constantly peeling off the layers of insecurity that both protect and isolate each person. Time rewards long-haul hairdressers with immaculate scheduling skills, a poker face, and varicose veins.

These stalwarts soak up our aches, they understand our moods. Yet with every snip and practiced flick, they make each of us a little bit happier. They hope that when we walk out the door, we become a nicer, better version of our former selves. Hairdressers are like psychotherapists that charge less and get faster results.

In lockdown, hairdressers were closed, just like every other ‘non-essential’ business. But they were loudly mourned (as much as pubs, if that can be believed). We wailed our loss in unison. Booze might be a highly addictive social lubricant, but in my opinion a regular blow dry is an emotional essential that we didn’t truly appreciate until it was taken away. 

Hair salons are an oasis of emotional salvation. When we walk through the door, their people are nice to us. We are seen, we are touched, we are cared for with expert hands. We are wrapped in unconditional kindness, even if it’s just for an hour or two. Someone brings us coffee and a copy of our favourite magazine, and tells us we’re gorgeous.  

This pandemic kept us all in bubbles. If we were lucky, those bubbles included people to hold, to kiss, to touch, and to hug. For singles, it must have been incredibly hard. It must still be so. Human contact isn’t just a ‘nice-to-have’—it’s a fundamental necessity.

In Harlow’s empirical work with primates in the 1950’s, infant Rhesus monkeys deprived of physical contact became severely disturbed, some turning to self-harm, or simply starving themselves to death. Human beings at a basic level need to be touched. Those complicated plastic sheets with sleeves invented for people to hug their parents in lockdown? They made perfect sense. We all need to be touched.

Lockdown drove some hairdressers off the books and onto the black market. My own mother, long retired, was solicited frequently during lockdown to whip out her trusty scissors, she always declined. Even for me, just a short county line-break away. In lockdown I had to revert from my peroxide gris to boring brunette for the first time in years. It was a disastrous bottle dye job and a DIY snip with kitchen scissors. It felt as joyless and perfunctory as scrubbing the toilet. 

With our world waking back up, getting back to the salon is high on all our lists. Ireland has come a long, long way since my time in the eighties as a clumsy apprentice finding her feet and her shape in the world. Coffee is no longer instant; ashtrays at each workstation have long been excommunicated. Today, there may well be cava on the menu, reclining massage chairs, and high end additions like ‘light immersion boxes’ that play music and pulse gentle colours around your head as your conditioning masque gets to work. Shiatsu head massages are delivered with expertise, lasting a blissfully long time. Gone are the fluorescent colours, portable gas heaters, the fire hazard big hair, patterned hammer pants and outrageous shoulder pads. Yet one thing remains: hairdressers still love us and miss us just as much as we miss them.

In lockdown I got to practice some of my old skills on the kids. On top of DIY hair cuts, undercuts and coloured fringes, in my house full of boys, we also gave each other facials and pedicures. It was fun. But also, it was a kindness, to ourselves and each other—one that, like many things, I only recognised in hindsight as being important.

As we rush back to the real world, think about the people that are waiting for us.  A phalanx of stylists, colourists, head washers and apprentices in this tiny, remarkable country that sits on the edge of the world, an army of empaths whose livelihoods were taken away overnight, who like so many, had to down the tools of the trade and sat still as the world held their breaths and simply waited.  

However, they still love you. When you get back, when you’re sitting in the chair being fussed over, savour every minute of being minded and cared for by this lovely lot of absolute legends. Remember that they have had to down tools for a while, and they might also be rusty. Be kind, and don’t expect miracles as they try to repair your frankly desperate DIY efforts. This will take time. Try not to dump too much of your pain on them (they’ve been through the ringer too!) and remember that, in their very special way, they make the world a better place, one person at a time.

 Oh – and don’t forget to tip the young one who washes your hair, even if she’s starting out.