Taylor Taylor, Whitechapel, London

Everyone has their own technique when completing a ‘hair-cut’ task. Mine, I have recently discovered, is a bit haphazard. After traipsing round Spittlefields Market one rainy Sunday for 2 hours; short ‘one appointment’ and long ‘suede shoes’ (now wet) I could not understand why, when I wanted my hair cut immediately, every single hair-dresser was suggesting times next week.

Several times repeating the same scenario (ending in me not getting a hair cut) left me despondent and alone in the rain; my split ends weighing heavy in my heart. As I started the journey home, a sole beacon of light appeared on the horizon. A mirage. It looked like a bar, but was called ‘Taylor Taylor’. Being a big fan of puns, I put 2 and 2 together… Could it be…?

It was. I entered and, for the hundredth time that day asked the soul-searching question: “Can someone cut my hair please, like, now?” Military-style negotiations resulted in a ten minute wait, which would, I was about to find out, work in my favour.

The receptionist made his way over to the bar in the centre of the foyer and nodded at me.

Would I like a drink?

Yes.

Would I like a champagne cocktail?

Hell, yes.

Booze grasped tightly in my hands, I peered out of the window at the passers by in the rain and waited for my cue.

I was summoned by a stranger to come over to the stairs. I could sense it was about to begin. Nic* was my hairdresser. Lovely, handsome, Italian Nic. We descended to the basement, away from prying eyes, and he sat me down gently. Nic looked (via the mirror) deep into my eyes, and asked:

“How would you like it done?”

Overwhelmed, I broke our gaze and mumbled something about perhaps a fringe, stuttering that he was the professional so I was at his mercy, meanwhile wondering if I was flexible enough kick myself in the back of the head and, if so, would that be the right action to take.

He lightly touched my hair, stroking it and letting in run through his fingers. I could feel myself relax as he lifted up a section of my hair and draped it over my face in an attempt to emulate a fringe.

“Yeah, that should be fine” he murmured in his lilting voice.

At this point I was nervous: I could feel the butterflies in my stomach; the jolt of electricity every time his fingers brushed lightly against my cheek. Sparks were flying. The apprehension was almost too much. We were about to throw all caution to the wind and embark on the journey together. Was it sensible? I mean, I hardly knew this guy (lovely, handsome, Italian Nic). Was it the right thing to do? Not least of the worries currently nagging in my mind was the thought that his fringe impersonation, perhaps, looked a bit shit.

The champagne part of my brain drowned out my attempts to be all British and, safe in the company of Nic, I bravely said:

“Yeah, let’s do it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Committed to this now, in body and in soul, I walked over to the sinks and took my place in the golden room with dim lights and relaxing music. I couldn’t take my mind of Nic and what he was going to do. I could barely concentrate on the polite holiday conversation going on around me.

With clean hair and dressed only in a towel-turban (in addition to the outfit I was wearing before), I bashfully stepped back into the salon. Catching Nic’s eye, I made my way over to the chair. He slowly sat my down and reached into his belt for his tool.

The pair of scissors made their first cut. My eyes were transfixed on them, snipping faster than I thought I could handle.. Nic was gentle but firm. Nothing came in between us and, in that moment, I felt safe with him. He had the demeanour of a man that had done this a thousand times before, but rather than feeling like I was paying for his service, he made me feel special. I could see in his eyes he enjoyed it as much as I did.

I was in agreement with Nic’s suggestion of a climactic blow-dry and by the time we had reached the end of it I was exhilarated. Nic asked me if I was satisfied. Speechless, I nodded, much to his enjoyment. He smiled, not breaking eye contact (through the mirror) he stroked my hair again, almost as if he were admiring his handiwork. I wasn’t ready to move so I remained seated and enjoyed being in the moment listening to Nic whisper into my ear phrases such as:

“You have really swingy hair”

and

“Do you want to buy any product”

Eventually it was time to leave. I collected my belongings and slowly made my way to the door, sipping on the remaining champagne and making small talk. As I ascended the stairs I knew the memories of this would stay with me for a very long time. In a dream-like state I paid the receptionist and thanked him for his help.

Just as I was leaving I heard someone call “Sara”

I looked round expectantly and saw Nic approaching me. He slipped me his card into my hand and said to me:

“Please come back in 6 weeks for a trim”

I knew what he meant. When you share something like that together it creates a deep, lasting bond and he didn’t need to say out loud what I knew he felt in his heart.

*(names have been changed to protect the innocent).

Terrible terrible terrible.

The worst haircut and colour I have ever had. The colour was left on my hair way too long and then was blow dried so harshly everyone could smell the burning hair. I’ve been walking round with intensive treatments on my hair ever since.

To top it off they didn’t even have the courtesy to respond to my complaint, even when I re-sent it.

I honestly do not complain much, I have had many a good haircut in other salons but I felt I had to tell the world not to go here. For the sake of you hair -JUST DON’T!

Generally I love going to the hairdressers. The experience is always mixed with a little fear and excitement when it’s your first time at a new salon, or having a new treatment, for me it was both. I had read many great reviews on Taylor Taylor so I decided to give it a try.
I liked the attention to detail of a phone reminder of my appointment the day before. On arrival I was offered a delectable array of drinks from the bar while I waited.
The decor is plush, more spacious upstairs than downstairs. I thought it rather dark downstairs where my colour treatment was performed. I kept straining to see in the dim light and shadows the details that my stylist was pointing out.
He discussed the possible outcome before proceeding and was very confident but honest about the potential results. I’d never had my hair coloured in a salon and was apprehensive to say the least. I decided to have only a semi-permanent colour applied. I was thinking at least it would fade out and all would be good. I know I’m a bit of a weeny, but I finally gave in to the experience of a professional colour treatment. Then there is the wait to have the colour set. One must be patient for beauty. After a short time I was lead to the shrine, the gold tiled sanctum of hair washing. A very nice young man did the washing out, it wasn’t his fault but, wow, do they have to use high grade toxic paint remover on my skin to remove the residue of dye from my forehead. Yikes, that burned. Mind you, if no one else complained it might be just that I have very sensitive skin. Maybe I should bring a jar of petroleum jelly to apply to my skin before the treatment. It works to keep the dye from sticking to the skin, at least it does when you apply colour at home. Salon dye is different, but still, it hurt.
The cost was £50, it lasted for a very long time, and I got loads of compliments. I have to admit that the method of taking the dye from my skin is what keeps me from going back, and it’s been a few months since my trip to Taylor Taylor. I should find a way to remedy this problem as the stylist did a very nice job.

Best hairdressers in London. It’s like a beautiful French Boudoir in here and my stylist makes me happy. They do something to my hair that is magic. Really. I come out of here bouncing on air. And the cut and blow dry only takes an hour. They’ve got a beauticians too but I’ve never been.

I have interesting conversations with Robbi as he snips away. He does not ask me about holidays. We talk about fun things. While I’m getting drunk on the free cocktails. That’s right. They have a bar. You can squeeze in two if you drink quickly.

I’m not going to pretend it’s cheap her. It’s 60 quid for a cut and blow dry. But they do my hair so well I only have to come here once every two-three months. So really it’s saving money…. sort of.

They know what they’re doing. The receptionists aren’t bitchy and I’ll never get my hair cut anywhere else. They’ve slotted me into emergency blow dry appointments a couple of times too. Very handy if I don’t know I’m going out later that evening and I’m hungover. Not that that happens a lot…