I’ve had my share of hair disasters. The wonky fringes my mum inflicted on me while I squirmed in the chair were a particularly sophisticated form of child abuse . The chocolate and yellow streaks that made me look like a fashion forward bumble bee. The fringe, in adulthood which I have nobody else but myself to blame for. I somehow forgot that I have wavy hair, which meant that I had to wear an alice band as my hair frizzed around my face like a dandelion.
But still I never learn. Whenever I feel stuck in a rut the first thing I change is my hair. I’ve been cropped, bobbed, layered, teased. I’ve been blonde, sunkissed, ginger, auburn, light brown, dark brown black and even on one memorable occasion ribena purple (it rocked!).
So this morning feeling more than a little jaded after a late night game of shithead and two bottles of red wine I dyed my hair. Half an hour later instead of the medium auburn promised on the packet I look exactly the same only slightly more ginge. And really despite the litany of hair disasters what is more disappointing than that?