Divorcing my GHD (Guest Spot: Bex)

Do you remember the time when you would arrive out on a Saturday night* and hear the squeals of ‘Oh My God’ (pre- OMG or LOL) – hairdresser hair! You would turn around in a fit of hair-lust see the shiny straight hair of the new arrival to the group.

Then Babyliss arrived on the scene and crimpers became straighteners. However forty minutes with one of those babies would barely make a dent in long, frizzy Irish hair. And within 30 minutes of leaving the house, the damp in the air would turn your bonce back into its usually wavy, frizzy, not-curly-but-not-straight, natural form.

Then the whispers began. Have you heard about the GHD? You can only get them in England… they are £150! (circa 2000 this was about €250 euro and we were still in school with a monthly pocket money of about €100)

Then IT happened. My best friend’s older cousin purchased one while in London. I arrived up to her house that Friday and every Friday thereafter. Down in the local pub we were greeted time and time again with a chorus of Oh My God-Hairdresser Hair and we sniggered at our ingenuity. Of course our day in the sun was not everlasting. Soon our secret was out as the GHD hit the Irish market.

Every night out for the next five years was spent with a good two hours of firing up the GHD and all the girls beating their lovely hair into submission. Sweaty and with sore arms, we would be ready to go eventually with not an ounce of volume among us. I look at photos from my university days and see picture after picture of flat haired clones.

Then the backlash began and my thick, wavy surf-girl hair became an item of lust. These days at the bathroom sink, the girls can be seen backcombing their hair to add volume and everyone’s hair is different – its now curly, wavy, straight, full of volume or shaved (best left to Amber Rose and Mel C I would think)

So with a seven year itch I am divorcing my GHD. It’s been loyal, but after numerous horrendous burns and too-many-to-count drunken panics as to wether I have left it on (and the house is about to burn down), it’s time to part. From now on, it’s a bit of backcombing with my fingers and out the door.

* after twenty minutes arguing with the bouncer over whether or not your fake ID was in fact fake.