I have not been blessed with well behaved hair; by this I mean that my hair does not resemble the stuff of shampoo commercials. In fact if I am honest it barely resembles a hairstyle half the time.

I have long since accepted my fate and now choose to have an extra 15 minutes in bed each morning rather than attacking my hair with an assortment of electrical styling implements. Of course I own a variety of the aforementioned tools, but they are safely tucked away in cupboards, collecting dust; the hot air blowers in the car have proven to be fairly reliable means of drying hair.

I do however have moments when I wish I could look stylish and at least give my hair some semblance of shape. It is for this reason that I actually quite like going to the hairdressers.

I’ve never quite gone regularly enough to have a usual stylist. Instead opting for the whoever has the soonest appointment approach. But I do at least show salon loyalty, although the primary reason for this is the fact they have fabulous chairs that massage your back and legs while having your hair washed.

Which brings me to today. Waking this morning and acknowledging that my hair now appeared to be growing outwards rather than downwards, I took drastic action and booked an appointment; symptomatic of my hair despair I always go into the hairdressers with the request: “give it a shape, maybe something different, whatever you think”. Over the years this has resulted in having 8 inches cut off, various perms, going blonde, going red and today’s restyle – having a fringe.

Having been assured that my cowlick wouldn’t be a problem - my other half says this simply means I apparently have hair like Jack Black in King Kong - she cut and cut and cut some more; while I sat in the chair twiddling my fingers, smiling inanely and wondering why it is that hairdresser’s mirrors always make you look so ill!

Some 30 minutes later the deed was done. The hair was dried and I was sat there not quite sure what to say. 6 hours later I’m still not quite sure what to say. Although the other half has, in between bouts of hysterical laughter more than made up for my lack of words regarding my hair (I elaborate for comic effect); he has of course been supportive: apparently it’s almost contemporary and it is only from certain angles that it makes me look like his mother!

The usual tricks of hair brushing or wildly shaking my head haven’t helped yet. All hopes are currently pinned on the impact a good night’s sleep will have; a true case of sleeping on it. Failing this, well I guess I’ll be back to the hairdressers tomorrow!