My hair in someone else’s hands

For the past ten years, the same person has cut and coloured my hair.  I am protective about my hair.  Indeed for the first six months of living in Leeds, I’ve still trekked back to Sheffield to have my barnet dealt with, which is no mean feat when public transport takes around 4 hours.   At present and for the foreseeable, however, I simply don’t have 4 hours to while away on a trundling train going through the less salubrious parts of South Yorkshire (of which there are many).  So, the time has come to take the plunge, move onto pastures new, as a change is as good as a rest (insert your own cliches, ad naseum).  I have found somewhere in Leeds that looks pretty good; it has won salon of the year a couple of times, so who am I to argue with the voting public.  It’s pretty pricey, so I’m having my hair cut with a junior, erk!  I’m sure it ill be okay; what on earth could go wrong with a pair of scissors and a bottle of peroxide?