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One of my earliest memories is sitting on the bonnet of a Silver Cross pram, my baby brother asleep inside, while Mam pushed us to the local hairdresser to touch up her perm. I could, of course, be making this whole thing up, reconstructing this rose-tinted fantasy as a childhood memory of my own. I’m not even certain a Silver Cross ever graced our front door. And I’d have been too big a lump to be sitting upon its apron, as well as older in this memory than would have been possible. So, yes, making it up is highly probable.

There is a particular kind of intimacy that exists between you and your hairdresser that’s hard to capture anywhere else

But one thing I know is true is that around that time, I became obsessed with our local hairdressers. This tiny universe of transformation sandwiched between the newsagents and chemist of the local L-shaped shopping complex in the newly exploding suburb of Dublin 15.

When my mother and father moved to Blanchardstown in 1978 from the central city, people thought they were mad – Is it even still Dublin? Don’t tell me it’s Meath? You’re out in the sticks – and out in the sticks it was. Dots of estates surrounded by fields, until eventually estate touched estate. Fields vanished. A brand spanking new concrete jungle in their place, with the curse of the 39 bus to connect us all. Dublin truly is a city of suburbs, growing out, not up, and as the city sprawled further during a period of rapid suburban expansion in the 1960s and 70s, creating new communities such as ours, small businesses followed. The independent hairdresser became as essential to these neighbourhoods as the local shop, the parish church or the post office and, by the mid-1970s, you’d be hard pushed to find a suburb without one.

‘As a true child of the 80s, it’s the haunting of home bowl haircuts’: Fiona Scarlett reminisces on her mother’s handiwork. Photograph: Fiona Scarlett

I’m not quite sure where this local hairdressers obsession of mine stemmed from. Perhaps as a true child of the 80s, it’s the haunting of home bowl haircuts. Early photos betraying my mother’s handiwork as I gap-tooth grin in tones of sepia, hair lopsided and elfin short (less Mia Farrow’s Rosemary’s Baby, more Jim Carrey’s Dumb and Dumber). I begged to be allowed to grow my hair long, mad jealous of the flowing locks and waves, plaits and colourful fancy clips of my peers. Your hair’s too fine, I was told. Too wispy, they said, to even consider any sort of length. A bob was relented to eventually, but with my signature uneven fringe. Always a fringe.

My first proper haircut came when I was about seven, clutching my magazine-snipped mullet inspiration in my sweaty little palm. Handing it over as if it were the most precious of jewels. Sitting on top of a pile of fresh towels as my hair was styled to perfection. Fine sharp hairs stabbing my eyes, lining my mouth, then tongue, sticking firmly to the back of my neck. The best day of my life. Did it all go according to plan? Did it feck – sorry mullet fans, but there is a reason they should have stayed trapped in the 80s. I was slagged mercilessly in school and at home (ah, slagging, the Irish showing of affection). But did I care? Not in the slightest. To me I was Vidal Sassooning the shite out of my new fancy ’do.

And so began my love affair. Time and again I would return, spending hours under a heated hood, rollers pinned, curls for my confirmation, forever chasing ringlets – only to prove everyone right as they fell to their natural poker-straight form within two hours. Later, I was berated by my hairdresser for using expensive Nicky Clarke shampoo, which I had spent all my 13th birthday money on. (It was drying the crap out of my scalp, apparently too rich for my hair.)

‘I would be told outright when I was making a disastrous hair disaster decision – whether I listened or not’: Fiona Scarlett. Photograph: Sarah Doyle/The Observer

I would be told outright when I was making a disastrous hair decision, whether I listened or not. There was trust here, in this tiny claustrophobic space full of hot-steam hairdryers, crimpers and nauseating chemical smells, full of chatter and gossip; it was never just about the hair for me. It was the stories. The laughter. The tears. The people. Long before I knew I wanted to be a writer, I knew I wanted to write about this place.

I’ve always been adventurous when it comes to my hair. That’s the rebel in me. And the affliction of my straight fine mane came into its own as I aged… Fast growing. Fast drying. Style holding well (except for any sort of curl, still to this day). I’ve had it dyed every colour under the sun. Chopped from long past my bum to sharp chin-length bobs. Pixie cuts. The Shag. The Rachel. The Lob. Gwyneth Paltrow’s Sliding Doors splendidness. Side-parted. Middle-parted. And every type of fringe imaginable.

I served my time as a hair model, too, just for classes, mind, my orange-and-yellow-and-black Tony the Tiger striped balayage a particular highlight, it has to be said. I cheered openly when hairdressers opened after lockdown, the first one bashing down the door to rid me of my 28 washout (ha!) jet-black dye, and to fix my son’s mother-inflicted 90s step, bowl haircuts harder than they look.

However, the role of the suburban hairdresser has always been about more than aesthetic transformation. When our elderly neighbour had a fall and ended up in hospital for her 90th birthday, it was our local hairdresser who called in to style her hair so it would look just right for her photos. Not a penny would be taken.

When one of my dearest friends was going through chemotherapy, it was her local hairdresser who prepared her for her hair loss: cutting to a bob first, before making the decision to fully shave. The same hairdresser who styled it as it grew back. Who listened to her and her fears of ever growing it long again, afraid of having to relive the trauma of losing it.

When my own hair started coming out in clumps – a joyous peri-menopausal gift – it was my local hairdresser who reassured, styled, offered advice on what could be done to combat it and ways to live with it. Hairdressers are there for key milestones in our lives: sitting with a glass of champagne before a wedding; an hour’s peace and a semblance of normality for a new mother; for a complete transformation after a difficult breakup. In times of joy, sadness, great sickness and in health, hairdressers are there, donning multiple hats. Therapist. Confidant. Friend. Knowing when to listen or when to offer advice or when there is a need for silence (a true and rare gift). There is a particular kind of intimacy that exists between you and your hairdresser that’s hard to capture anywhere else.

‘Long before I knew I wanted to be a writer, I knew I wanted to write about this place’: Fiona Scarlett at her hairdressers in County Kildare, Ireland Photograph: Sarah Doyle/The Observer

But times have changed. Independent hairdressers across the country are struggling. The rise of chain salons, with their sleek interiors and standardised services, has transformed the industry. Many of these chains offer cheaper prices and longer opening hours, making it harder for small salons to compete. In my present commuter-belt community, of the five salons that existed here when we first moved into the area 19 years ago, only two remain. The others have either closed down or changed ownership. The pandemic dealt another blow, many small salons unable to weather the extended closures.

In the age of Instagram, we have every style imaginable at our fingertips and clients are looking for them to be replicated. Salons have to change with the times in order to survive in an incredibly cutthroat industry. More training. Longer hours. Finding ways to attract new customers whether that be through social media, online bookings, advertising, all costing money and time, which don’t affect the chains in the same way. And how much change is necessary? How do you retain the essence of what makes a hairdressers unique, maintaining what makes them special in the first place?

Those that have remained and stood the test of time have found their niche in offering not just services, but sanctuary. A place where people can still connect in real, meaningful ways. And that, to me, is irreplaceable.

While researching my novel, I spoke with dozens of suburban hairdressers. Their stories confirmed what I’d always known – that these spaces serve a vital social function that goes far beyond haircare. In an increasingly digital world, small businesses, shops, banks and post offices across Ireland are shutting down, with more and more social interactions forced online. The physical intimacy and face-to-face interaction of a hair appointment becomes even more sacred.

This hit home particularly during the post-lockdown reopening. My local hairdresser, who runs a small but thriving salon in County Kildare, where I now live (utterly betraying my Dublin roots), told me how her elderly clients in particular had longed for and missed human connection, some having not been touched by another person in months, or years. The utter loneliness of that. For some, a hairdresser might be one of very few instances of human interaction, of touch, of conversation, of company, in their life. A hair appointment provides a time and space for undivided, one-on-one attention for an hour or more.

The suburban hairdresser offers something that few other services can recreate – continuity, community and genuine connection. They know your history, your family, your troubles and rejoicings. They remember how you like your tea, which magazines you prefer, whether you’re afraid of the harsh blast of the hairdryer… Knowledge accumulated over years, even decades, and incredibly difficult to replicate.

As Ireland continues to evolve, with new suburbs sprouting and old ones changing, the role of the local hairdresser shifts, too. But their fundamental purpose – as guardians of communities, providers of care that goes beyond the cosmetic – remains as vital as ever. In a world that often feels increasingly fragmented and isolated, these small, familiar spaces become more, not less, essential. The conversations still flow. The stories still unfold. And the heart of these communities still beats strongly, filled with possibility.

May All Your Skies Be Blue by Fíona Scarlett is published by Faber at £16.99. Buy it now for £15.29 at guardianbookshop.com

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