So my dad gave me £50 for my birthday to "treat myself" with and I decided, instead of my usual £15 a pop trimming of the split ends, to go to a swanky hairdressers and get my lengthy locks all chopped.

Swanky it is, all right. Lovely latte from a coffee machine, head massage with mango-scented products, adding much-needed glossiness to my dry hair and conditioning every strand from root to tip.

And I watched as the long, untidy locks fell to the floor and felt my head growing lighter and lighter, released from its hefty, headache-inducing burden and felt myself feeling gradually happier and free.

Hurrah!

And then she blow-dried it. With fine, scented spray to make it all extra spanking shiny and new.

And I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the chic, short, glamorous, short, trendy, short new hairstyle that has replaced my long untidy mane.

And I FUCKING HATE IT!!!!!

Oh. My. God.

Where's the mess? Where's the flickiness? Where's the length? Where's me?

It's all bloody styled. Which a) I don't like and b) will never be able to replicate myself, in a million trillion gadzillyooksfeckityfeckityillion years.

Which means that the very next time I wash it, I am gong to look like this:

mushroom

I am going to hide. And smash mirrors. And smoke furiously.

See you all in summer, when the fecking stuff's grown back a bit.

*weeps*