Bad hair day

A few weeks ago I broke the sacred rule - never trust a hairdresser with a bad barnet. I went into the salon asking for a trim. "I'll just put a few long layers in to give it some shape," she soothed. I watched as a mound of my locks piled-up higher and higher on the floor below me, too timid to shout "Stop!" What I ended up with wasn't a trim - it was a mullet. Granted, it was a blow-dried, hair-ironed and waxed mullet, but if properly described - adhering to the Trades Description Act - you'd have to call it a mullet. And it was hideous.

When I looked in the mirror, I was horrified. I looked like a footballer from the 1980s. My fringe (which took me years to grow out) struggled to reach my chin, but a small portion of the back of my hair raced down my shoulders, streets ahead of the rather short layers sticking out of my scalp.

Now if there's one thing I'm vain about in this life, it's my hair. Yes, I'd rather have an extra ten minutes in bed than faff about styling it every day, but it absolutely has to be right. The majority of the time when I look in the mirror I don't see the scars or the scoliosis bumps in the wrong places, I see my locks looking luscious or, more often than not, in need of a session with a hot brush.

Other people may find it strange that I rarely think twice in the summer about wearing shorts and showing off the collection of train tracks on my legs. They're a piece of my history, my life story, as much a part of who I am as my memories. My body shows what I've been through in my life, and how far I've come. I like being an original - my figure is definitely a 'designer' creation, as opposed to homogenous ready to wear.

Likewise, I wouldn't let my scoliosis stop me wearing a swimming costume or strappy top - yes, some people may stare, but more fool them. I learnt long ago, even though it was difficult, that it's much better to feel the sun on my skin and enjoy my life, rather than worry about what other people think of my appearance. I'll leave that to Posh Spice and J-Lo - they've cornered the market in stressing about their looks, so why give them any competition?

Having said all that, when it comes to my hair, I'm a hypocrite. I dread that quick trip to the newsagents on a Sunday morning with tied-back unwashed hair, only to bump into someone I know. If I'm happy with my hair, all is right with the world. But if I'm not, then I'm certain everyone is looking at the unbrushed frizz style disaster. That's why I was definitely having a very bad hair day in the hairdressers.

I thanked the hairdresser in my typically repressed English fashion, then scuttled off home (without leaving a tip) to see if I could do anything with it. Maybe if I washed it, it wouldn't be as bad? Wrong - it just metamorphised into a wavy mullet. If there's anything worse than a straight mullet, it's a wavy one. Fancy a twenty year-old Kevin Keegan do, anyone? No takers? Thought not.

After an entire week of hair paranoia, I could bear it no more. The mullet had to go. I couldn't even tie my hair back to disguise it. The side bits were too short to go in a pony-tail, and as a result I ended up looking like Adam Ant at the height of his dandyness. All I needed was some white sunblock on my nose and I'd be well away.

I booked an appointment at another salon and crept in, convinced that everyone was thinking I was a mini Glenn Hoddle. They probably weren't. It's much more likely that they were whiling away salon boredom by wondering if the brakes work on my walking frame. But it mattered to me, enough to shell out another twenty-five quid to turn the mullet into a bob.

So now I'm having a good hair day, though there's no way I'm providing a photo of the mullet to accompany this article. Oh no. I wouldn't let a camera within a mile of me. Think Pat Sharp from 1980s children's TV. and you'll soon get the idea!