Hands off, he's MY hairdresser

So, Ex-Husband will be marrying Much Younger Fiancee sometime next year.

Let me start by saying that she is really, really nice. She has only ever been lovely to my two gorgeous girls (which, in my book, is all that really matters) and consequently they both think that she's wonderful. She is fifteen years younger than me (lucky her) which also makes her fifteen years younger than Ex-Husband (lucky him, which is what all his married male friends have been whispering under their breath and out of earshot of their wives, ever since they got it together).

She's slim and trim, slightly toothy and terribly sweet. I've met her loads of times. While she's clearly a wee bit buttoned-up and has a penchant for matching shoes and handbags (which I find deeply unnerving) and likes arranging her books in alphabetical order, I'm very grateful that it is she (and not any of the Previous Unsuitable Girlfriends) that Ex-Husband has chosen to spend the rest of his life with. Perhaps I'll write about the Previous Unsuitable Girlfriends one day (and yes, there were a few) but for now, suffice it to say, MYF seems like an excellent choice. Even if 'Love, Actually' is her favourite movie of all time and 'Lost in Translation' is her like, absolute worst.

But (and there's always a but, isn't there?) I was slightly disconcerted to learn from Eldest Daughter a few weeks back that MYF had been asking after my hairdresser. Fast forward two weekends and Eldest Daughter came home with the news that MYF had acquired a brand new hairstyle, courtesy of my lovely Andrew.

WTF?!?!?!?!?

I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or outraged. There are 310,000 hairdressers in London (seems a bit high, but I googled it and that's what it said) and yet Much Younger Fiancee felt it necessary to go to MINE???

Needless to say, I rang Andrew immediately. This is the man who has sat through (well, stood through, bless him) almost eight years of my banging on about Ex-Husband's many flaws, about the horrors of lawyers and divorce courts and Financial Dispute Resolutions, about Unsuitable Girlfriends and my worries about my daughters' happiness, about the complexities of my on-off relationship with Brixton Man. Clearly, he is much more than just a hairdresser. The man is a saint (and a brilliant colourist/stylist too). He knows more about me and my ridiculous, chaotic life than some of my closest girlfriends. Happily, after much humming and hawwing, he assured me that he couldn't even remember her.

Initially, I felt incredibly gratified (not least because it confirmed my suspicions that Much Younger Fiancee is, essentially, not very memorable) but later that night, lying in bed, I began to feel paranoid. What if they had had a conversation about me? Andrew wasn't about to admit it, now was he? Being a haidresser is like being a therapist: when it comes to client confidentiality, don't both professions operate by the same rules?

Anyway, I decided to be grown-up about it. Be happy for Andrew that he'd acquired a new client in these difficult, recessionary times. Not let it bother me. Let it go.

But I couldn't help feeling secretly thrilled when I saw Much Younger Fiancee a few days ago sporting what is (in my very humble opinion) a deeply unflattering new hairstyle.