Having a baby, witnessing a majestic whale breach out of the water right before your eyes, even seeing the cabin crew close the door of the plane when there are still two empty seats in your row – these are inarguably some of the greatest rushes a human can feel, right? You would struggle to match the euphoria these experiences produce – the joy, the satisfaction, the unbridled sense of wonder. They pale in comparison though to hearing the immortal words: “You’ve loads of hair, so you do.”
All my life I’ve been told I’ve loads of hair and it’s genuinely kept me going during some tough times between me and the hairdresser’s mirror. “Your hair is quite fine, but there’s just so much of it,” hairdressers have exhaled in wonder as I’ve kicked my feet and squealed.
Now, obviously curly hair is the Holy Grail. Having perfectly curly hair is a sign that you did something heroic in a previous life. Those of us with only a “bit of a kink” seethe with envy, for proper curls effervesce with life and purity. My hair, like so many of my wavy friends, is slightly curly underneath yet disappointingly straight on top. I assumed I had brought this on myself after years of literally ironing my hair straight in the 1990s before graduating on to the GHD for most of the 2000s. I recently learned however that straight-on-top-curly-underneath has a name: Irish hair!
“Irish hair” is a relatively new concept that appeared on TikTok – where else? – earlier this year. It claims dubious genetic origins and comes with the laughable assertion that “the flat hair on top protects the layers underneath from the wind of the moors. The curls around your neck fight off the damp of the mists.” Moors? Mists? What in the Wuthering Heights are these TikTok broads talking about?
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My suspicion is that “Irish hair” is an offshoot of the “curly girl” movement which swept across social media during the pandemic when people with real curly promise had the time and patience to tease their locks into bouncy ringlets.
What can I say? I have Irish hair! Going on the lash is in my genes!
Those of us cursed with the flat hair of the moors could never achieve such styles and so the legend of mist-proof Irish hair was born. I have been absolutely skitting at the idea of our big Irish heads evolving to keep up with the rain on the bog. Consider me humbled in advance if there’s some kind of paleotrichologist out there doing genetic testing on the bog bodies and discovering that they were absolutely plagued with a curly nape and a frizzy halo.
I was due to see my own hairdresser last week and had planned to do some research while in the chair, but was forced to abort the mission. My appointment was for 12.15pm on Thursday afternoon. At 5.17am on Thursday morning I sent the text. I would have to cancel. I was so sorry for the short notice. But it couldn’t be helped.
You see, sitting in front of the mirror at the hairdressers is one of life’s more humbling experiences. Salons are always a little too warm from all the hairdryers and gossip. The cape is like an insulating tent and above it floats your head, hair slicked back from the deliciously vigorous shampooing at the sinks. It’s safe at the sinks. There are no mirrors, you get a little head massage, the products smell like rich ladies. It’s ideal. Once back in the chair though, it’s just you staring straight ahead and Podge or Rodge or maybe both staring straight back at you.
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Even on a good day the salon mirror is confronting. It’s understandable then that in the wee small hours I came clean to my hairdresser. No “dodgy tummy” or Covid cop-out. I had left the house 12 hours earlier to attend an innocent film launch and had lost the run of myself, ordering a taxi home from the after after party shortly before 5am. What can I say? I have Irish hair! Going on the lash is in my genes!
I told my angel hairdresser straight that I had done the dog on it and there was no way I would be able to face The Mirror at our appointed time in less than seven hours. I was filled with shame as I pressed send and the dawn chorus moved tauntingly into their coda. “Don’t worry at all,” she responded later that morning. “We’ll reschedule.” At least I had all that hair to comfort me as I took to the moors to keen out the hangover.