Two years ago, I was a hair straightening addict. Like many women (and an ever-growing number of men) my daily grooming routine involved a session with my straightener. Post-shampoo and blow dry, I would subject my hair to a few minutes of 400 degree heat in order to tame the (minimal) frizz and (few) kinks my hair possessed. I’d like to say I left it at that. One lunchtime break, after observing a colleague whipping out her straightener, I realised maintenance was essential. Thus, by 5PM each day, my poor hair had already been subjected to three oven -hot bouts of heat. From here, it got even worse. Nights out could be a nightmare, where sweaty clubs and bars turned my sleek locks into brittle straw. Enter the pay as you go straightener. Installed in pub toilets the length and breadth of the country, they were a God-send to celtic tiger babies like myself who could not bear to see a hair out of place. At â’¬2 a pop, and in constant use, I wouldn’t be surprised if they single-handedly kept some establishments afloat. Before I get ahead of myself, I should go back to where my hair-straightening story begins. My chestnut brown tresses are in fact naturally straight. Like most straight-haired people, I have a few spots where my hair flicks out, and humidity is not my friend. Aged 13, at my cousin’s birthday party, on a hot and heavy summer’s night, I was introduced to the world of straighteners. Of course, this is before actual hair straighteners. A clothes iron, a hand towel and 5 minutes of intermittent burning turned my boring brown frizz into a sleek and sexy crowning glory. Of course I was instantly hooked, even with the lingering scent of eau de clothes softener. It took two years before I actually owned my own proper hair straightener. I can’t bring myself to think, even now, of how much damage I did to my hair in those two years of ironing alone.
This was followed by a further six of obsessive-GHD straightening, as I mentioned above. During all this time, I dreaded each trip to the hairdresser like a sugar addict dreads the dentist. The more positive stylists commented that at least I didn’t bleach my hair. The others scolded me like a bold child who had covered their Sunday best in mud. One in particular, who I credit with an important turning point in my hairs life, pointed out that if I didn’t kick the habit soon, I would have split ends to practically the roots. She cut three inches off my ends instead of my usual one, and said that if I didn’t get more sense she’d have to cut it into a bob next time if I wanted any thickness at all. This struck a particular cord with me, as I spent all of my childhood fighting against a horrific chin-length bob that did nothing for my chubby features. I decided then and there that I needed to stop straightening for good or at least reserve it for special occasions. And so here I am, almost two years later. Although I am still the proud owner of a hair straightener, it only sees my hair about once a week now. I have also become a fan of frizz-easing serums and more shockingly, hair rollers! My hair is shiny, thicker and takes weeks instead of minutes to get noticeable split ends. Girls, there is hope for us all!