If being a woman has taught me anything about beauty, it has taught me we all give a lot of f**ks about our Hair.

To an extreme. A, dare I say it, religious extreme. We wake up most mornings thinking about it. Praying our efforts don’t get ruined by forces out of our control. We obsess over the loss of it, change of it, silver-crept ageing of it, and more.

And few of us are atheists. Despite priding myself on my intellect and kindness far above my follicles, I have spent decades tonging, bleaching, and masking my hair. If anything ‘of the flesh’ was to consume me, it would be the mass of tortured strands on my head.

The realisation came unexpectedly and I knew I had to break the chain.

Aptly named as it could could be, The Chapel provided a personal hair mecca.

While my first visit had little to do with hair whatsoever, the environment left such a positive imprint on me I knew it was the place to turn to cut more than half my hair off. To finally fill in those over-bleached ends. To get over the use of hair as a security blanket*.

In two separate appointments, Oliver (and a slew of truly kind salon accomplices) took me from weighed down to the glossiest, bobbed version of myself I could hope for. With the service, laughter, and know-how of proper barnet apostles.

As my hair grows out, the gloss will fade into a healthy version of the natural colour I can barely remember. And I can’t wait.

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* The best way to address this without rambling on for years would be to direct you here. But do tweet me – @lelalondon – if you’d like me to delve deeper.

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