After going back and forth for weeks, you’ve finally got all of your mates together and planned the biggest night out of the year. The photos, (and knowing your snap-happy mates, there's going to be thousands) will do the rounds for eternity. There's a very real chance that the fit lad from work is going to be out and, in the horrific event that you do bump into your ex, you need to look fit as fuck.
Just when you dare to get a bit excited for a night out, (always a warning sign that someone will end up crying in the toilets, covered in vodka before midnight) your hairdresser - the one person alive who truly understand how to stop your hair reacting horribly to the humidity of town on a Saturday night, who knows where your parting is better than you do and who always gets your fringe on point - drops a bombshell.
She's going on holiday.
Stage one: Denial
No, she can't be, you must of read the dates wrong. Twice. You better call her and clarify that it’s all just a really awful misunderstanding; you're a good person after all, you don't deserve this sort of anguish.
Stage two: Anger
Your worst fears are confirmed, she's going away. Quite literally abandoning you when you need her the most. What. A. Bitch. Who does she think she is? What, are the Ibiza closing parties suddenly more important than her clients, no her FRIENDS. You'll never forgive her for this. Never. She's dead to you now.
Stage three: Bargaining
After she politely declines your offer of paying for her to cut her holiday short and fly back to sort your barnet out, you set your sights to rearranging the whole night out: "listen babe, I know it's your birthday on Saturday, but don't you think it'd be better to go out a week later?" Apparently not.
Stage four: Depression
You’ve rang six other salons and no one has an appointment. After a terrible attempt at a DIY curly blow you’ve rang your mates to tell them there’s just no way you can come.
Stage five: Acceptance
After a double vodka and a few strong words to yourself you’ve decided that no, you will go out. Yes you may look like Hagrid after a heavy one at the GBar, but you’re a strong independent woman, and you can cope. Sort of.