Visiting the hairdresser has never been a particularly enjoyable experience for me. I’ve spent a lifetime trotting down to my local high street hair salon (or wherever takes my fancy, I’m a serial salon hopper) armed with pictures of the style I’m after, but more times than not I leave feeling like they haven’t quite met the brief.
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I text David to tell him I’m so nervous about moving and marrying him that I wake at 4am every day, stomach churning. Even the dogs are still snoring. I’ve never been vulnerable like this with him before. I have always put on a brave face, leaving him to read about my insecurities later. But he surprises me by being incredibly supportive.