Seanhanna: hairbutchers of the year

This year I decided that I should spend more money on my hair. Hell, I have a stable job, a boyfriend to share the bills, and no kids to feed, apart from my aged cats, so I should be able to treat myself once in a while. So I said goodbye to the Russian lady who had been my faithful hairdresser for over five years, always getting it right, or at least highly acceptable cut and colour, despite washing my hair upside down in her bath. Well, it was cheap, what do you expect!  
Following on the success of my BKT, I went back to Rush Victoria to have my hair coloured, whilst sipping proper coffee and listening to something other than Russian pop music. I deserve this, I thought, feeling quite smug. I asked the colourist for warm milk chocolate with copper highlights and gave her a photo. Easy, I  thought. 
After some fakery, the colourist dried my hair. I looked myself in the mirror and saw jet black with red stripes. No, no no! It would appear that NOTHING in the world wide hairdressing is easy. Open to interpretation more likely. I took a deeeeeeeep breath. "This is not what I asked for, this is black, jet black, not milk choc". The hairdressers, being such patronising beasts, tried to convince me that jet black was the colour I asked for and even tried putting the photo I had brought on my hair to compare. I snatched the photo way and told them that they could stop right away trying to pretend this was choc, when it so clearly was J-E-T B-L-A-C-K, and that I was not colour blind, you so called hair colourist! They offered to fix it, but subsequently messed up my next appointment to 'bleach' my hair (which was probably just gonna go terribly wrong) and I had to look like a WAG for months. Needless to say, I have not gone back.
Try number two: Seanhanna in Canary Wharf, which, it would appear, won a hairdressers of the year award. Surely these people will be able to do something right, right? WRONG! Disaster number 1: The first time I went for cut, I specifically said NO LAYERS. What did I get? Layers upon layers upon layers. I am starting to doubt my ability to speak English. Did I somehow learn Russian from my old hairdresser and now can only talk Russian to hairdressers??? They offered me a 50% off haircut next time, after I had a chance to grow the layers.
Disaster number 2: two colourists, yes, two of them, which looked no more than 15 years old, had to do my colour three times. Four and a half hours later, I went from a somewhat faded chocolate brown to blond with orange highlights, then red with red highlights to auburn with red highlights. I am a brunette, people, BRUNETTE! Not blonde or ginger or red! Is milk chocolate with copper highlights such a mystical colour to baffle these teenagers in such a way??
Disaster number 3: on the same day as colour, my 50% off haircut as an apology from the previous fuck up. I just didn't know that they meant I was going to leave with 50% less hair. As soon as the 'senior hairdresser', who looked 13, started cutting my fringe I knew I was in trouble. But I doubted myself, you see... I thought "Is this a new technique from the hairdressers of the year"? Wrong again! The child started to chop and chomp my fringe vertically and disaster ensued. He just could not get my fringe straight! The very basics of hairdressing! How can they be hairdressers of the year? Which year exactly, 2045?  No one cuts hair like that!  STRAIGHT fringe!! I am not asking for much here! The result was awful, a chomped fringe, two inches above my eyebrows, wonky, badly drawn (and quartered!) Ridiculous, stupid and plain wrong. 
AND they wanted to charge me! The very cheek of it! I asked the receptionist if she thought my fringe was straight, she didn't reply. She instead asked me if I was happy was my colour. "Do I look happy after spending five hours of my Saturday sitting here, hungry and deeply annoyed, whilst you tried to fix my colour three times whilst repeatedly hacking my hair with a blunt axe? Are you going to pay for my wasted time?" She kept looking at my fringe. Needless to say, I am not going back. 
At this rate, I will run out of 'establishments' that will see me by the end of the next year... Deeply frustrated, demoralised, hungry, feeling sorry for myself, I texted my boyfriend ahead of getting home to warn him my hair looked stupid, so he would be sympathetic and not say things like "is that what you wanted?" I got home and had to hear a 'sympathetic' "oh dear... " from my boyfriend. Yes, oh dear indeed. Back to the Russians then....