I’ve always thought a hairdresser is a bit like a spouse – finding the right one can be hard and when you do, you want it to last forever. My Brisbane hairdresser and I have been together for years. We have a great relationship. Nicole understands me. She knows what I need and can give me what I want. I, in turn, reward her skills and patience with my loyalty and my credit card.

So looking for a parrucchiere here in Italy has been a bit like being back on the dating scene. I have my hair cut and coloured every five or six weeks (nearly but not-quite-yet ready to let the grey grow out), so I’m often searching for a new hairdresser in a new city.

I don’t need trendy teams in flashy salons and, in fact, I don’t even care that much about the outcome (my hair grows quickly and really, how bad can it be?). I do, however, care about the experience. I want that hour-and-a-half of what could be better-spent-elsewhere time to be at least pleasant and comfortable.

Certainly every hairdresser I’ve been to here has been pleasant and the language hasn’t been a problem; I learned quickly to explain what I wanted. It’s the successful execution of the request that’s been a bit hit and miss. I’d like a colour, please, but not too dark (yet somehow every colour ends up being darker than the previous one), and a cut, but please, just a little bit off, not too much (let me just say again, it’s lucky my hair grows fast). But for the most part, the results have been fine.

Some of the experiences along the way, however, have been slightly more challenging; like scissors so blunt they pull your hair with every snip, dangly bracelets that flick your face, hair ending up in places you don’t want it, colour not ending up in places you do, hairdryers so hot they make you yelp, and gels and pastes that set like boards. The only compensation? The cost of a visit to the hairdresser here is slightly less than in Australia.

Finally I head home to where my real spouse is always waiting with a comforting compliment and a nice cup of tea. Of course Greg’s own ‘clean cut’ style means he doesn’t have to endure any of this. Five minutes in front of the mirror for a quick whip over with the number two blade and he’s good to go for weeks. He knows I’m jealous.

But I’m very aware that before long I’ll have to start my search all over again. Maybe there’s a market for a kind of tinder for hairdressers. That could work … swipe left, swipe left, swipe right! It’s the parrucchiere of my dreams! Hope springs eternal.