Dear Jasminda,

I’m thinking of changing hairdressers, but the lady who currently does my hair has kids at the same child care centre and we bump into each other regularly. How do I explain it to her?

WT, Tea Gardens

Okay, WT, let’s just think this through a bit more carefully.

People from major cities can get away with changing their hairdresser as frequently as they change their car.

You know, they start with a Toyota because they want to do that charming ‘Oh What a Feeling’ jump in the air with little Mimi and Sebastian, Jules the au pair, and Shih Tzu Teddy.

Then along comes ‘Das Auto’ and, well, what woman wouldn’t swoon from the accent, not to mention the emission-cheating diesel fumes.

I digress, WT, as I do when I get a question that raises the hairs on my fashionable new lotus flower undercut.

Let me give it to you as straight as a vodka shot from the Tea Gardens Hotel Motel on Trivia Night.

You don’t live in the metropolis, my poor misguided angel.

Changing hairdressers in a small coastal community is social suicide.

It’s the regional equivalent to clubbing a baby seal.

Did she remove your entire eyebrow during the complimentary brow wax?

Did she give you a blue rinse instead of caramel highlights? Those things mean nothing, nothing, WT.

Hair grows back. Reputations don’t.

Remember what you shared about Jimmy the mechanic when she lulled you into a false sense of security during the Argan oil treatment?

What about the ‘between you and me’ whispers relating to Maria at number 93 as she GHDed you to perfection?

Those acrylic talons aren’t just for massaging your temples you know. Hell hath no fury like a hairdresser scorned.

You’ve been warned.

Carpe diem,

Jasminda.