So longtime readers will know I have a thing about my hair. It's not quite the equivalent of body dysmorphia HOWEVER it is a fact, and always has been, that I have big, unruly hair that I have been in battle with since teenhood.
Since I was 26 I have also started going grey.
For twenty years or a little less, I coloured, dyed, tipped, bleached, frosted and highlighted in salons around the world and at home. In the beginning, the grey wasn't so noticeable but over the years it's become a lot more so. The roots would show so quickly after colouring and I wasn't happy either with the amount of time, money and chemicals that I was having to deal with in order to try to fight this evidence of ageing. Women hate going grey, and they don't. Because it's possible to not ever go grey, and it's fairly easy and cheap to cover it up.
I've decided on a different approach.
A couple of years ago, maybe three, I went to the hairdresser and said that I wanted to work with it instead of against it.
I had a few treatments with her - she's a really good colourist - and then while I went to see her once after our trip (2 years ago) since then I haven't been. I've let it be. And it's gone a lovely white, silver colour. Really quite fetch.
Then this last week, I went back to her with my plan for the final stage.
I am happy to look my age but I don't want to look like a haggard old lady who doesn't give a fuck, so I thought a bit of gothic hair would be the go.
Cue Daphne Guinness, heiress to lots of beer money and owner of fabulous wardrobe and even more fabulous hair:
I am in the process of unashamedly ripping off her hair.
I am very pleased with myself.
I love it.
I love my hair.
I love being different to everyone else.
I am going to be that lady, the odd one, but instead of purple hair, it will be a reverse skunk, and children will point and stare and perhaps I will cackle.